


Here Be Dragons

by anonion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, DARK!Mary, Emotional, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Johnlockary - Freeform, M/M, Mary's Past, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Third Wheels, Threesome - F/M/M, dark!john, ménage à trois, though trying to stick to canon AMAP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5217776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonion/pseuds/anonion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock feels like an intruding third wheel, and so does Mary. John feels split in two and doesn't want to let any of them go. But what happens when a status quo becomes unbearable? Vatican cameos: Mycroft.<br/>(Many thanks to Hoodoo, Shakespeare 6.7 and especially Sideris).</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers. Please, be aware.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sideris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/gifts), [Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Steven+Moffat+%26+Mark+Gatiss), [Sir Arthur Conan Doyle](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sir+Arthur+Conan+Doyle), [All the people that made the Sherlock BBC series possible: actors & crew & everybody else](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+the+people+that+made+the+Sherlock+BBC+series+possible%3A+actors+%26+crew+%26+everybody+else), [All the Sherlock Holmes fans that ever were and ever will be](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+the+Sherlock+Holmes+fans+that+ever+were+and+ever+will+be).



> **DISCLAIMER** : I do not own Sherlock.
> 
>  **Thank you Hoodoo** for your initial advice, **Shakespeare 6.7** for your betaing, advice and for the Sherlock rant you wrote for me; and especially **Sideris** for your thorough, honest, quick and invaluable alphaing rather than betaing, I should say. I'm deeply indebted to you people. Thank you.

Mycroft had called him 'dragon slayer'. He could deny it as much as he wanted, but Sherlock was no _goldfish_.

It had been a flattering insult, very Mycroft-like: witty and ambiguous. But Sherlock understood him; they understood each other like nobody else could. The truth was that underneath both the mockery and the compliment lay a stern warning. And below that, his brother's concern. His ever interfering and utterly infuriating brother's concern.

Sherlock felt cold. He hated having to stand still and wait, but there was nothing else he could do. He was paying the price for his choices, he thought moodily, and shot a glance at Mycroft, who seemed an ice statue. It was a cloudy, windy day; with a 60% probability of rainfall within the next three hours. He'd checked. 

Sherlock frowned. He had always been smart enough to know he and his brother were not attuned to the rest of the mortal world. He'd been okay with that for _so_ long, it still felt weird to stop being sure he was _above_ human errors. Only, they didn't feel that much like _errors_ any more. No need to be Mycroft to know what had changed. Although, not being Mycroft, he had taken time to notice it. John. John Watson. John Watson, with his bright smile and his expressive face and kind eyes and yes, he was Sir Lancelot in Shining Armour. Sherlock snorted to himself. He had even started talking like John. His ridiculous writing style's influence, no doubt. Messing with his _massive intellect_ , as the good man once called it. Yes, it was all John's fault.

He'd always been numb to the world, and proud of it. He'd always thought _getting involved_ was an error. That yielding Reason to Feeling was an error. It was an error because it made you suffer and prevented you from thinking rationally, objectively, scientifically – _properly_. That's what he'd always believed – and believed still. It's true, isn't it? You can't get your empirical data collected and your inductive reasoning done if your head is full of silliness. You've got to be stoic. You're a genius, you're above the rest of humankind. You must be untouchable, impenetrable, insensitive, unyielding. You've got the knowledge, they haven't. You've got the _power_ , they haven't. Deceive people into thinking you're as soft-hearted as they are; that your heart, if not your mind, is _ordinary_ – make them underestimate you, that makes your job easier, leaves you unscathed. Make them show their cards without showing yours. Trick them into yielding to you. Let them think you're one of them. But you're not, you're not a _goldfish_ , you're a _shark_. You're the strongest of all, the most cunning of all, smirking from the shadows. _Unscathed_. That's absolutely true. 

But John had changed him. He was a brilliant conductor of light; he made him think in new and original ways – made him think in ways he never had before. And amongst other things, he made him ask of one little, simple question:

_What for?_

What did he want to be the strongest, the most cunning for? Why did he want to be a predator, a wolf in sheep's clothing? What was the point? He'd enjoyed John's company. He'd enjoyed John's company without having to categorise him as either prey or a rival predator. He had at first, of course – prey, with no doubt. An idiot, like all prey. But later he realised that no, he was wrong: John was strong. So weak-looking at a first glance... yet so strong. Strong in another sense – a sense he'd never considered before. A strength he'd catalogued as weakness before knowing him, but now...

John. What had John done to open his heart? To make him unafraid of... 'getting involved'? The doctor admired Sherlock's sharp mind, true, but it was nothing compared to the admiration the detective had developed for his friend's courageous heart. John had endured two years of grief without breaking down. He had endured an arsehole of a best friend. Hell, Sherlock thought, he had endured a _war_! And yet he still was able to smile so warmly, his eyes so honest, his face so open. He had not only endured a predator like him but actually befriended him; considered him his best friend. John's heart had been broken so many times, and he still was able to... love. To get involved. To get hurt and yet rise up again – and again, and again. He was _resilient_. He was able to _heal_. _He was able to be prey and yet carry on_. Christ. He was so human. So very _not_ like him. And yet... there also was a cold, hard core deep within him. A core made of _the other_ type of strength – the dangerous, dark one. John hadn't thought twice before shooting that taxi driver dead. For _his_ sake. Not even a week after meeting him for the first time. They had never discussed that again, but now he understood just how big of a deal it had been. What it had truly meant. Yes, now he knew. _Too late._

Sherlock's right hand moved on its own to reach for a cigarette box that wasn't in his pocket. Obviously not, you stupid man. One cannot smoke on planes. He had left his cigarettes behind on purpose, and had taken nicotine patches instead. Damn. He was too nervous, Mycroft was too calm, why the hell was that man in black standing so close to him, and God, finally! The car arrived. Black, intimidating, official. Clearly one of the thousands Mycroft had stashed away in some warehouse outside of London, if the dust and dirt collected under the windsheild wipers was anything to go by. You can tell a lot about a car from the wipers, and a lot about the people who drive it. You can put in a fresh tank of gas and give it a 'thorough' cleaning, but no one thinks to clean under the wipers. Stupid. _Goldfish_. The car came to a stop in front of him and his brother. The car from which John and 'Mary' got out. Sherlock didn't really _observe_ them, because as soon as they approached him, he made sure to look _through_ them. He said friendly but redundant words to Mary, who was honourable enough not to kick a bloke when he was down, and who replied with the same kind of friendly niceties. He knew she strongly suspected the truth, because yes, he had done those things and said those words mostly for John's sake, even if she had benefited from them, and she was aware of the fact. And she was thankful, as she should be. Sherlock tried his best to school his face into a sympathetic expression. It was hard to resent such a fair player as Mary, but he couldn't help feeling a bit sour. This was turning out to be the most bitter pill he had ever been forced to swallow. But he'd smile. For John's sake. And... for Mary's sake too.

“ _Here be dragons,_ ” he had said. No shit, Mycroft.

Slaying his first big, fat dragon hadn't cost him his life, as so many people believed. Sherlock felt a now familiar pang in his chest. No, not his life. Damn Mycroft. The price had been John, losing John.

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. Neutral. Sensible. Strong. He must remain strong. He must. He must become the imposing King Arthur statue he so liked to impersonate. Sherlock fucking Holmes didn't commit _human errors_.

Or did he?

_Enjoy not getting involved_ , Mycroft had said. _Ha. Damn you, Mycroft. Breathe in, breathe out. And speak._

“Since it's likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?”

_There. I've said it. But that's just the easiest part. Now, I've got to enter the dragon's den. John is nervous, he doesn't know how to react. It's such an awkward moment._

“So here we are,” _he says. Indeed, my good friend. For the last time, here we are._ “I can think of nothing to say.” _Well, John, I'm envious. I'm thinking of a lot of things I want to say, yet I can't utter a word._

“The game is over.”

_Oh no, John, not that. Don't say that, don't put it into words._

“The game is never over. It may be some new players, that's all.” _Damn it._ I've _put it into words. And the conversation, our goddamned last conversation, goes on without us._

_“Here be dragons.” Yes, Mycroft, I know that._ Except, he hadn't really _known_ until he had been forced to shoot down the dragon who had out-witted him. Because Magnussen _had_ out-witted him, just like his brother always did. _Checkmate._ The only option left had been to throw the board to the floor and scatter the chess pieces. And the price to pay was losing John. _Again._

Unbearable.

He needed to smoke, badly. Mycroft and 'Mary' were now far enough away and John was looking at him with that painfully attractive expression of his, between unsure and hopeful, and so utterly open. He seemed to shine, even when angry, even after murdering a cabbie with a cold bullet through his skull. But that probably was just his perception. Yes... human error.

Could John actually be hopeful? Did he suspect the truth? He probably did. Sherlock was an ace at interpreting facts, but John read hearts. Although, he wasn't as insensitive as people thought he was. He _did_ perceive mood – most of the time. He just didn't dare to remove his armour. And he had been wearing armour for so _long_ , that he was clumsy about acting according to what was expected. Besides, he couldn't help getting impatient with the hypocrisy people insisted on calling politeness and social etiquette. That much he had made clear at John's wedding.

On that occasion, he had gone in and out of the dragon's den, but without slaying the beast. No, of course not. He would have looked foolish to Sir Lancelot, who didn't seem to notice that particular dragon. That ugly, nasty, invisible dragon. _Oh, John. Don't tell me you don't see it._

“John, there is something I should say... I've meant to say always and then never have...” 

_Go on, go on!_

“... since it's unlikely that we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

_God, my good friend. John! You're nervous. Even I can see that. But not half as nervous as I am, I can tell you that. Or are you? It hurts, right? It's a different kind of pain for each of us, I know. I know I'm hurting you, once again. I wish I wasn't. It hurts me too. You could put an end to it – yet you can't. Not really. A doctor cannot heal with his hands tied. And you're such a kind doctor, John. I know you wish you could ease my pain._

A 'dragon-slayer'. It had been a beautiful insult, all right. Mycroft wasn't King Arthur or Sir Lancelot; he was Merlin, and was able to read both facts and hearts. He had known, had known all along, had known way before Sherlock had. And he had warned him. _Remember Redbeard?_

The invisible dragon looked at him with big, watery puppy eyes. “Don't slay me,” it implored. “John and Mary's happiness will shatter if you do”. 

The silence was beginning to become awkward. The dragon just kept staring at him, and the agony strangled the heart Sherlock had forgotten he had. The silence stretched and stretched and stretched in the wind, heavy and rotten like the hot breath of a dragon. 

And then he spoke.

“Sherlock's actually a girl's name.”

Bravo. That's your best misfire so far. It even beats that time when you made John think you'd die in the Tube – John always manages to be so sincere when it matters. Sherlock felt like a teenager unable to court the girl he liked and who pulled lame jokes instead to cover that fact. He hated feeling immature, _hated_ it. But in front of John, he simply couldn't help it. Couldn't help showing off. Couldn't help turning his collars up. Couldn't help tricking him into expressing his feelings, instead of asking him directly. And he certainly couldn't help running away from the dragon. 

John just laughed. That incredulous laugh of his which wasn't a true laugh at all; and averted his eyes, trying to conceal both his disappointment and his relief. Sherlock smiled; it wasn't a happy smile either, but now he knew. He knew John had noticed the dragon as well, he knew he had looked into its eye as well, and he knew he'd been just as intimidated by it as Sherlock had been.

Yes. He had thrust Excalibur with courage but he had failed at the last moment, and now it was stuck deep into the cold, hard rock. And once again, the dragon hadn't had the smallest scratch. Its puppy eyes had now become two unpleasant, mocking orbs; and its pleading pout, a cruel sneer. _You cowardly, cowardly man._

“To the very best of times, John.”

That's as far as your courage goes, Sherlock, isn't it? That, and a hand shake. John's hand is almost as moist as yours, and he has that same odious smile you have plastered on your face.

Here be dragons. No shit, Sherlock.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence. 
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


	2. The Lady of Shalott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers.**  
> 
>    
> A big thank you to **sideris** , who took my clunky, mistake-ridden sentences and transformed them into proper English. Also, their recommendations and tips improved this fic immensely.  
> Thanks to **hoodoo** as well for re-reading this and bearing with me. 
> 
> If you like Sherlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ooOoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was suspicious, to say the least.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock growled, “your theory's stupid.”

The Detective Inspector seemed to know better than to take offence at Sherlock's rudeness, so he simply sighed.

“They _confessed_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted and started pacing. They were in Lestrade's office, it was ten in the morning, and Sherlock couldn't believe the police's incompetence after so many years working with him and his methods.

“But the _motive_ , Gary! There's no _motive_ , for God's sake!”

“Greg,” the Inspector tiredly corrected. “And there is a motive. A childish prank from three very talented, very attention-seeking computer geeks. They _confessed_.”

Sherlock threw his arms into the air in a melodramatic show of exasperation.  
“Do you really expect me to believe a bunch of 16-year-olds was able to hack the United Kingdom's main broadcasting systems _by themselves, just to pull a prank?_ ” 

Lestrade seemed slightly irritated. “Look, Sherlock, I understand you're unnerved. Seeing Moriarty's face on every bloody TV set was unnerving for everybody, believe me. But it was just that, Sherlock, a _prank_! They're geniuses, they're skilled, and they were bored. It wouldn't be the first time bored geniuses chose to show off their skills in a delusion of grandeur.” Sherlock chose to ignore Lestrade’s pointedly look.

“How can you be so obtuse!” he barked, sitting down then standing up again. “Bored teenage geniuses hack _web pages_ , Garrick! The CIA's web page, the UK Government's home page! _Not a TV network's internal broadcasting system!_ ”

“Well, those three did.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And care to explain me how they got access to the computer system?”

Lestrade smirked proudly. “From one of BBC's own computers in London. Martin Galloway confessed. His brother has a part-time job as a cleaner there; he took his employee access card, entered the building and hacked the system.”

“Meanwhile, Rose from Glasgow and Paul from Liverpool hacked Channel 4 and ITV, at the exact same moment, without siblings working as part-timers, with no phone call or sms or any kind of contact between them!” Sherlock exclaimed. “They didn't know each other, have never met face-to-face, and there's no trace of any kind of communication system between them – if your own geeks at the police aren't wrong, which frankly would surprise me – and nevertheless, they managed to coordinate a most difficult hack up to the minute?”

Lestrade tapped his desk with his index finger, a nervous tic Sherlock had already observed in him. “It was Paul who discovered Rose's and Martin's talents and addresses. They communicated by carrier pigeons and burned all the mail – ”

“ – rubbish,” dismissed Sherlock, impatiently. “I was at their flats, there was no trace of pigeons having been there; none at all. You could say they cleaned after them very well, without their family knowing – however unlikely that is for such geeky, middle-class teenagers with both parents and/or siblings looking after them – but it's impossible to erase absolutely all traces. Nobody else in their family noticed any sound or smell or anything that'd make them suspect there were birds in those brats’ bedrooms. They might have given a false declaration, in order to protect the brats, but even Paul's eight-year-old little sister said nothing, and it's easier to make a child talk – she didn't notice anything unusual about her brother's behaviour, didn't notice birds flying to his bedroom – even the neighbours saw nothing. One could argue the pigeons didn't go to those teenagers' rooms but to another place; yet they all live in the middle of their respective cities; if they all went regularly to a specific place, some of Glasgow's, Liverpool's and London's CCTV's would've captured them – but there's no trace of them in any footage, I checked; something _you_ didn't, by the way. Teachers and fellow students, some of them with little sympathy and certainly no loyalty towards Rose, Paul or Martin all said they didn't notice anything abnormal in their behaviour and habits. And anyway,” he added, “why collaborate? Why would attention-seeking computer geeks want to share their glory? They didn't need the other two to hack their chosen TV network's system, that much has been proved – they just coordinated to hack them at the exact same moment, with the exact same message. That suggests their aim was not to show off but to attract my attention – that 'miss me?' message was for me – but why would otherwise law-abiding, academically promising kids want to attract _my_ attention, and risk legal penalties for it?”

Lestrade sighed deeply. “Sherlock,” he said in such a fatherly way it annoyed Sherlock a bit. “You should be used to the idea that you're pretty famous by now. They wouldn't have collaborated if they didn't think sharing the glory with other two people was worth getting your, the police's and the whole UK's attention.”

“But that doesn't explain the lack of evidence – ”

“The case is closed, freak. And Inspector Lestrade has more useful ways of employing his time than listening to your rants,” said an annoyed female voice from the office door.

“Sally,” said Sherlock, icily. He turned slightly to glance at her. “Always a pleasure to see you.” 

The woman shot him an irked look. “Sergeant Donovan,” she corrected him. “Despite your hobby of belittling our capacities, freak, we're professionals and we don't need an amateur to tell us how to do our job. Now, we're _busy_. Get out.”

Sherlock half-closed his eyes and smirked. “Hmf. That's why you keep calling me to save your professional skin, isn't it, _Sergeant Donovan_? You're wearing black trousers today? Oh, I see. Cheap tampons don't always work as they should, do they? You should ask Lestrade for a pay rise. You could scrub his house floor, as you scrubbed Anderson's before his wife kicked you out of her house.”

Sally Donovan would've been livid, if she had had a whiter skin. As it was, her eyes murdered Sherlock painfully slowly.  
“Sherlock – ” warned Lestrade, alarmed, but the woman cut him off. 

“That's all you've got, you childish weirdo?” Her voice was strained with contained rage. “Not half as brilliant without your sidekick constantly kissing your cocky arse, are you? Just admit defeat already. _We_ solved the case, the culprits confessed and the case is closed. Get the hell out of Scotland Yard.”

“You've got such an... _exotic_ beauty, Sally. Pity your sweet personality and your feminine job will prevent you from getting an actual boyfriend,” spat Sherlock, and regretted his words as soon as he voiced them. The offended woman smirked viciously, triumphantly, taking advantage of his error. “Speak about _yourself_ , freak. My being competent at my job doesn't prevent me from having friends or getting laid.”

Sherlock snorted. “No, of course. You got your job by having friends and getting laid,” he spat nastily, and stormed out of Lestrade's office with what he hoped was a cool, dignified swagger.

Sally Donovan's words had hurt Sherlock deeper than what he'd ever admit aloud.

* * *

Miss Watson, Mary Morstan, A.G.R.A. or whoever she was supposed to be now, sat next to her kitchen table. She was caressing its edge with her fingertips, back and forth, in a simple, monotonous and sensuous fashion: she was deep in thought, staring at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite. The wrinkles of her face were the evidence of the nature and the length of her life – just like her husband's.

John. He was such a good man. She had fallen for him fast and hard, since their first interaction. Her palm smoothed the table, and her lips formed a bitter-sweet smirk. She could perfectly relate to what Sherlock felt. Her hand stopped and twitched a little, then continued caressing the table's edge. She had told John she liked Sherlock right after meeting him. No lies there: he strongly reminded her of herself. He was like a male mirror straight from her past. But that, they'd never know.

Mary – as she had decided to call herself since she’d met John – took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had worked so hard, was still working so hard, to become what she was now. It wasn't that she rejected herself, or her past – no, just the ugliest parts. Or rather, she was in the process of accepting them as such and trying to turn them into something positive. Yes, that was it. Mary closed her eyes and her fingertips rubbed her lids. What would _they_ think if they saw her now? Were they even alive? God... she was thinking a lot about them these days. Something to do with becoming a mother, Mary thought.

She felt her eyes become wet, and would have let herself cry, but she had caught a movement in the mirror in front of her, so she collected herself. That specific mirror was strategically placed to reflect the only window that was on Mary's back, which, while sitting in that spot, she wouldn't be able to see otherwise. She stared at the mirror and watched her husband talking to Sherlock at the front door. They were close to each other, very close. John's face was lit up, smiling brightly to his best friend. Sherlock himself seemed merry, as merry as he was able to show. Mary caressed her front with her fingertips, her elbow anchored to the table. She felt a pang in her chest, she felt like crying again – but this time, for different reasons. Instead of giving in, she closed her eyes and took a shaky breath. 

Sherlock. She'd been genuinely sad on seeing him enter that plane, partly because she _did_ like him – preferably, alive – and partly because of the torn expression John had had in his face. He'd been smiling, albeit tightly, all the time he thought Sherlock could see him. But as soon as the plane took off, well... she knew that face, had seen it already. She had helped him through his grief before, it hurt having to do the same twice. She didn't know if John could go through mourning him _again_... It had been hard. It had hurt her to see Sherlock fly to his exile – more than what she thought it would – and towards his certain death. And all for John's sake, for _their_ sake. Like in Greek tragedies. Except, Sherlock had returned just after. Alive.

Mary opened her eyes and tapped the table with her fingers, then stopped, then tapped again. John was talking to Sherlock with his hand on his friend's arm; and Sherlock was leaning towards John in quite an intimate way. Mary almost snorted. Those two seemed oblivious to the subtext in their relationship, but for Mary (and for anyone else, she was sure) it screamed out, loud and clear. Different words, same message. And yet, they apparently didn't get it. Or they _did_ get it, and had chosen to maintain the _status quo_. Because, you know, life is complicated, and yes I loved you, but you kind of faked your death while letting me believe you died for good and, guess what? I lived through Hell, I got lonely, and then I got married. Let's smile, right? Right, because men don't cry. 

Damn. The tears were trying to run away again, so she closed her eyes to stop them. She heard the front door opening and the men's voices coming in, but she wasn't going to let them see her like that. So she forced herself to smile, until it eventually became a true smile. When they entered the kitchen, they found no trace of sadness in her face.

“Well then, Marx Brothers!” she greeted them. “Where have you left the third one?”

“Who, Mycroft?” answered John, hugging her and giving her a kiss on her cheek.

Sherlock frowned for a very short instant, then put his trademark 'not interested' mask on, and asked: “The who brothers?”

“The _Marx_ Brothers, Sherlock!” exclaimed John, both amused and incredulous. “Of course you haven't heard of them.”

“Meaning they're unimportant,” Sherlock counter-attacked. He then sat on one of the kitchen chairs with brusque elegance and stared at Mary. “My dear brother is currently occupied feeding bullshit to goldfish.”

John looked as confused as she felt, but Sherlock didn't deign to explain things further. He threw his arm towards the basket of fruits, chose an apple and took a bite.

“Is the baby asleep, dear?” asked John, turning to her.

“Yes, John,” she answered, and her heart sweetened. “She's in our room, as usual.”

"I'll go and see her. I want to say hello.”

“Be careful, don't wake her up...”

“Don't worry, I won't. Sherlock?” He looked at John. “Do you wanna come?”

Sherlock blinked. “What for?” he blandly asked. John made his 'you've-just-made-another-social-mistake-but-I'm-patient-and-forgiving' face, and answered, “You're her godfather. I thought you might want to see her.”

“I'm her godfather. _I_ thought you might've wanted to give her _another_ name.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock,” Mary interjected with a large smile. “She's got a beautiful name.”

“It's not _beautiful_ – ” 

“But it's the one we wanted our baby to have,” cut in John, and added with a playfully malicious smile: “It's actually a girl's name, right?”

Sherlock groaned, but a smile threatened to betray him. “You could've called her _Shirley_ , or something.”

“Too bad,” said Mary, with a mischievous smile of her own. “ _I_ got to name her.”

A smile finally cracked through the detective's lips, though it wasn't large enough to show his teeth. “I only agreed to be her godfather because you seemed determined to go through with that absurd religious ritual of christening, and were determined to make me participate as well. I don't see the point in perpetuating irrational, archaic rites where symbolic step-parents are assigned with no other basis than personal acquaintance with the actual parents; which, by the way, is no guarantee that those assigned are necessarily able to cope with such a responsibility, as in my case,” he said in one breath, but rose up and followed a smiling John anyway. 

When they left, Mary relaxed her grin into a sad smile and resumed caressing the edge of the table, her gaze fixed on the woman who stared at her from the mirror with a knot in her throat. She had been thinking about _that_ lately. Thinking hard. And she was done thinking. She was a woman of action, after all.

* * *

John looked at Sherlock and felt a familiar giddiness. He was dressed as smartly as ever, staring down at the baby with ice-blue eyes. John liked Sherlock's demeanour, Sherlock's smooth movements, his spontaneous energy and his piercing eyes. He had stopped lying to himself - at least to himself - the day he thought Sherlock had died. He _did_ feel attracted to him. He'd felt such ripping pain after Sherlock's death, he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd found himself standing on a puddle of blood. 

The pain he felt now was different – it was a sweet pain, if one could describe pain as sweet. He'd felt such joy and yet such misery when Sherlock came back to him – came back _too late_. John couldn't even remember how many times he'd fantasised he'd finally told Sherlock how he felt, _what_ he felt, and now that he was alive it was possible – yet not. Because John had moved on, and things had changed. Sherlock caused him so much exasperation and pain and yet, under that cool, detached exterior, he seemed to be yearning for John as much as John'd been yearning for him. And God knew John couldn't resist a plea for help, a hand gripping his clothes, a feverish glint in the eye – that undid him, he was a _doctor_ , for fuck's sake! He'd been hardened by so many years of practice, and yet a mute, heartfelt cry and a poignant mask of indifference and John was in a turmoil. Or was that just what he wanted to see in Sherlock? John sighed. Sometimes it seemed as if Sherlock couldn't care less about him and the whole affair. But if that were true, John thought, if that were indeed true, how could one explain his Best Man speech, and his little touches, his little smiles, his delightful way of making John accomplice of his witty humour? John approached Sherlock and stood close to him, too close maybe, but what the hell. Even if they'd stuck to their old damned _nothing-worth-mentioning-happens-here_ game, nobody said he couldn't play with the limits of its rules.

Sherlock was currently inspecting the baby in full detective mode, as if she were a knife half covered in gore – as if she were a proof in a crime. John felt a pang to the chest at that thought. The baby wasn't proof of any crime, because loving Mary was no crime. She was like a strong pole he'd hold fast to – after so many unstable relationships, after his _whatever_ with Sherlock, after his fucking _death_... She was the stability and the commitment he'd needed; the loyalty, the strength, the shelter, the friend. He didn't want to lose her. And _yet_ – there always was a _yet_ in his life, wasn't there? – and yet, Sherlock stirred in him something that made his heart beat faster, made his body lean towards him, made his groin – _stop that. It's as impossible as ever, mate, you're married to Mary now._

Sherlock shot him a weird look, John realised how close he was, cleared his throat and moved slightly away – but not too far away. Sherlock wasn't the only unfair bastard there, John thought moodily, and he'd be damned if he let Sherlock drift even farther away from him. The tension was so obvious even Sherlock seemed to suspect something, so John tried to avert his attention while not giving up an inch of conquered space. 

“She's cute, right?” John asked.

Sherlock blinked, cheeky. “Whom?” 

John rolled his eyes, aware that Sherlock was playing dumb intentionally. “Baby Sherlock, of course.” 

A flash of something crossed Sherlock's eyes, then he smiled slightly and looked back at the tiny baby. “Hm,” he conceded. “She's got your eyes, John.”

John felt a flutter at his chest. It hadn't quite been a compliment, yet, well – he chose to take it as one, what the hell. Nothing was going to fucking _happen_ between them anyway, he could pretend to live a fantasy so long as he didn't overstep the boundaries of reality. John smiled brightly at Sherlock. “And she's got your name,” he shot back. A bit of playing around couldn't hurt, right?

Sherlock's smile looked like a crack on a smooth marble surface. “Your name choosing ability is as deplorable as my parents', John. I can't compliment you two on that.”

John barked a laugh. “And _I_ can't agree with you.”

“Doesn't really matter,” Sherlock answered back. “'It's Mary you have to agree with.”

It hurt as if his heart'd been stabbed with a needle, and John's smile turned slightly sour. And yet, he kind of appreciated Sherlock's stings – he could pretend they were motivated by jealousy, and that alleviated the pain. No matter how messed up that very fact was.

John couldn't find anything witty to reply with, so he huffed. “Mary must be waiting for us.”

“ _Indeed_ , my dear John Watson.”

 _There it is again_ , John thought. That sweet pain. If one could describe pain as sweet. _I'm such a sad fucked up bastard_.

Sherlock put his hand on John's lower back and pushed him gently towards the door. John felt as if he'd been burned and the heat spread directly up his spine and to his groin. He noticed with a shiver Sherlock's hand stayed there until they got perilously close to the kitchen, and took a shaky breath.

Two could play that game, it seemed.

* * *

It was raining.

It was raining, but Sherlock wasn't looking through 221b Baker Street's windows. No. He was staring at nothing in particular, his eyes looking at his living room without observing. For once. 

He was bored. He was irked. The Moriarty prank case still had loose threads, but he could do nothing about it, and Scotland Yard were a bunch of blind idiots. At least he'd had the opportunity to be with John more frequently than what had become normal. And now he was back at Baker Street, with no case and no John. 

He was bored. Bored out of his mind, without John's gun to shoot at the wall. Without John to hide his cigarettes or to go shopping for milk or something. He was _stagnating_. He was bored. He was lonely. He was...

Sherlock frowned. He was _sad_. 

He wouldn't have been able to put his finger in the exact word that defined his mood before. Before meeting John. John and his romantic streak – but no, he was just a normal bloke, wasn't he? No. No, he probably was more perceptive than most blokes. Certainly more than himself.

Sherlock smiled acidly. When it came to feelings, it was _him_ the one that looked but couldn't observe. John and he were so complementary. The best team ever.

Whatever.

John's teasing but friendly smile came to his mind. _You say you're sad, Sherlock? A perfectly sound analysis, but I'd hope you'd go deeper. You've missed the most important facts._

Which ones, John?

 _You're not just sad. You're melancholic. You're nostalgic. You're restless. Bored, too; you nailed it there. In short, you're unhappy about our current situation; you miss me. You miss_ us. 

Shut up, John. There's no man on Earth who can feel so many different things at the same time. Don't be ridiculous. God. Stop laughing.

_Seriously, Sherlock. You're the ridiculous one. You're a caricature of the rational, insensitive Victorian gentleman. Not as much as your brother, though._

And then you smile fondly at me, and resume writing in your blog. And then you disappear, because you're not really here with me. Not any more. No. You chose to live with Mary, with a woman. They're the emotional ones, right? Women. But Mary, John. She's a cold-blooded _murderer_. 

_You're_ a cold-blooded murderer. A soldier. 

Christ. _I'm_ a murderer. 

And neither of us is paying for it. We're no heroes, see? I told you, John. There're no such things as heroes. Don't be romantic. Some people's heroes are other people's villains. 

Good grief!

I guess I've got a penchant for cynicism. Don't you? Tell me you do. But you're not here any more to tell me anything. You're not here with that glowing smile of yours. This is worse than when I faked my death, John. Because now I know that even _your_ patience and your loyalty have limits. 

It's raining outside. It's _pouring_ outside. Is there no clever criminal left in London, for God's sake?! 

* * * 

1 A.M.

John lay awake.

It had been an exhausting day at the clinic (because, obviously, fathers aren't supposed to share the burden of taking care of babies with mothers, so shut up and be grateful you _did_ have paternity leave, you lazy git); as usual, he had barely had the energy to wash the dinner dishes and fall in the sofa to surf on the Internet. He did go to bed with Mary, but despite his fatigue, he couldn't fall asleep.

He was torn. Torn between what he thought was the right thing to do, and what he desperately wished to do... Dr Watson and Mr Hyde. He would have snorted if he had had the energy, and if Mary were a sound sleeper. 

John took a deep breath and looked at his wife. He couldn't quite see her face in the dim light of their bedroom. Her breathing was deep and relaxed, but that didn't prove anything. He returned his gaze to the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to contact Sherlock for two weeks. He supposed the detective would be busy following the newest thread of the Moriarty prank case. Or had he solved it already? Oh dear, he couldn't even remember. That never happened before. Hell, _he_ had been busy with the baby and work and...

“John?”

He almost jumped.

“Jesus, Mary! You were awake?”

“So were you,” she answered. “What's worrying you?” Mary moved to John's side and embraced him with one arm. He relaxed a bit, but didn't answer. 

“You can't sleep?”

Again, John remained silent. Mary raised herself over an elbow and said with a smile: “I know of a method that helps falling asleep...”

“Are you going to tell me a fairy tale?” said John, feeling playful.

“If that's what you want...”

Mary lowered her face and kissed him with tenderness. “Once upon a time,” she whispered, “there was a kingdom called Camelot...”

John snorted, freed his arms and embraced his wife.

“... where a Prince Charming lived in a great castle...”

This time he huffed, amused, and kissed her. “Are there any dragons in your story?” he asked, joking.

“Just one,” was her smiling reply, and positioned herself on top of John. She kissed his neck, then his cheek, then his lips; and he replied with soft caresses. 

“It was a lonely dragon that was kept chained in the dungeons of the castle,” she continued. She started unbuttoning his pyjama top, and he immediately did the same for hers.

“The dragon didn't mind being kept in the dungeons,” said Mary, “for it hadn't known any other kind of life.” They were both naked from the waist up now. “The dragon was proud of itself,” she whispered while kissing and caressing John. “All the humans it saw appreciated its ability to melt the rocks they gave to it. With just one exhalation, it could melt any rock and turn it into pure gold.”

“But one day, the Prince Charming – not knowing there was a dragon in the dungeons, and following his adventurous nature – descended the stairs of the castle far below the lowest level he'd ever been. He entered the dungeons, and discovered the dragon.” Mary paused, then continued. “The Prince Charming was thunderstruck by it. It was a rude, arrogant yet charming dragon who didn't pay much attention to him, or that's what he thought at first.”

“Mary...” said John, and stopped caressing her.

“But the knightly, honest Prince still praised the dragon for his extraordinary ability. The Prince discovered the beast could actually be quite friendly; he was simply so used to living alone in a dungeon that he didn't know how to react.” 

“Mary, please,” warned John. Mary didn't seem to have realised she had switched from saying 'it' to saying 'him', but John had.

“Eventually, the Prince befriended the dragon, and they spent a lot of time together having fun. One day, the Prince descended as usual but he found the dragon nowhere. “Where's the dragon?” he inquired to the guards. “He's dead,” they answered shrugging. “That cannot be,” thought the Prince, but the dungeons were deserted. He bitterly mourned his friend's loss.”

“Mary, stop it.” John's voice was strained; he was a bit annoyed now.

“Time passed and the Prince Charming fell in love with a Princess Charming. They were to live happily ever after, and they were certainly happy. But one day, a miracle turned their lives upside down.”

“Let me guess,” interjected John, sarcastic. “The dragon returned flapping nonchalantly, and thought the Prince'd just say 'oh, hello!' ” 

Mary gave a weary half-smile. “He did flap nonchalantly, and he did have presumptuous misjudgments about the Prince's ability to keep secrets to himself,” she affirmed. “But the Princess Charming noticed an alarming detail, and I'm sure the Prince Charming did as well.”

“What detail?”

Mary sighed quietly. “The dragon was still hindered by heavy chains.”

John remained silent, and Mary continued talking. “He may have thought that the ever gentle Prince'd free him from those chains. But, he got a reality check and decided that wasn't going to be possible.”

“What are you trying to say, Mary?” John was dead serious. He heard her swallow. 

“I'm positive he loves you, John. Like in, _deeply_ loves you.”

John was agitated. When he spoke, his voice was raspy. “I suspected there was something.” He paused. “I mean, if someone like Sherlock _can_ actually love.”

“Come on, John,” Mary replied gravely. “He _killed_ a man for _your sake_. Look at what he did to that CIA agent for Mrs Hudson's sake; you told me.”

“A peculiar way of showing love.”

“I was prepared to do the same,” declared Mary. _And I have actually done it_ , thought John with unease.

“I still am,” she whispered, and a heavy silence followed. “Besides,” she added, “you should've seen his face when we went to save you from that bonfire.”

“I...” John huffed. “I _know_ , Mary.” He searched for his wife's eyes in the dark. “But don't worry. I'm married to _you_ , dear. I love you. And I think 'best friend' is a good enough place.”

Mary remained silent for some minutes; John noticed there was something wrong. “What is it?” he inquired.

“Sometimes, 'best friend' is not good enough,” she replied, and the depth of her voice made the doctor think about the gaping hole that Mary's past still was to him.

“But what on _Earth_ do you want me to do about it?” asked John wearily. “You're not insinuating I should abandon you and the baby and declare my ardent, earnest passion to him with a rose between my teeth, are you?” he added acidly.

“No, I'm not,” said Mary, and fell silent. They were in no mood for physical intimacy any more. After a while, she spoke again. “Look, John...”

He sensed anxiety in her voice, so he waited for her to resume speaking.

“You may want to deny it, but... there is a blatant sexual tension between you two.”

John panicked. He'd become so embarrassed he was thankful of the darkness. “Mary, not you too. I'm _not_ gay.”

“Stop using semantic loopholes, John. I'm not Sherlock. I know it when you tell half truths.” She smiled and added, “I'm well aware you're interested in women.” Her smile wavered. “That doesn't exclude you being interested in men too. Am I wrong?”

His silence betrayed him. Mary hesitated a bit before speaking again. “I don't mind, John.”

“Come on, Mary, I _know_ you don't mind – ” 

“I mean, I don't mind you being attracted to Sherlock.”

He was shocked into silence. Suddenly, the air became colder. “Are you telling me,” he said in an icy, slow voice, “that you _don't mind_ if your husband lusts after his best friend?”

This time, it was Mary's turn to be speechless.

“I...” she finally croaked, “Look, I don't know. I'm not sure, okay?” John heard her hands messing with her hair. “I _love_ you, dear, you know that. You know how much you mean to me.” She swallowed and continued. “It's just... I feel bad. I feel like an intruder sometimes, like it's _my fault_ you're not togeth – ”

“Mary,” cut in John, sternly. “It's so _not_ your fault. I'm seriously shocked you can think that way. It was _him_ who abandoned me; he caused me so much unnecessary sorrow it nearly destroyed me! He's the one who keeps people at an arm's length; he's the one who keeps pushing me back even now –”

“ – because of _us_ , John – ”

“ – because he's a _fucking emotional half-wit_!”

The outburst seemed to resound in the bedroom's silence. For some time, the couple didn't dare to utter another word. Finally, Mary spoke with unusual timidness. “Maybe... maybe we can work a way out of this mess.”

“How?” asked John, tired. Mary was silent for a moment.

“I... I don't know,” she admitted, “I'm not sure... but... I do want a happily ever after. For everyone,” she added, with weak humour. John snorted, then smiled, and felt a wave of tenderness towards her wife. This was mostly why he fell in love with her: no matter the seriousness of a conversation, she always managed to lighten the mood, to stay positive.

“Don't go all hippy on me, Mary,” he said with affection. She smiled and answered:

“Why not?”

But deep down, A.G.R.A. knew why not.

* * *

“Are you sure, Mycroft?”

“Brother dearest.” A pause. “ _Please._ ”

Sherlock shot another glance at the file Mycroft had handed him. _Documents on relatively old paper, typewriter style – no, Courier font letters. Written using an old computer's Text Processor. The last documents – one third of the total – on newer, whiter paper. Written in Times New Roman, more recent. The manila file's colour faded, edges worn. Smells like dust. Kept in storage and barely removed. Top Secret? Not quite. Old news. From the 90's. Regularly, but infrequently updated. Still kept secret, not stored on computer._

“Why are you showing me this?” he asked to Mycroft.

“I thought it would interest you.”

“Bullshit. You’ve always got ulterior motives,” Sherlock answered flippantly. They remained in silence, and when he saw that his brother wouldn't cooperate, he changed tactics. “What are you going to do?” he inquired.

“Nothing,” answered Mycroft, inspecting his fingernails. “Unless Germany tells us otherwise.”

“Not bound by EU laws?”

“EU laws don't bind their masters, dear brother.”

Sherlock huffed and returned the file.

* * *

Sherlock stood smoking in front of his living room window. He shot a glance at his cigarette. Industrial; already done. Random American brand from random vending machine. Mediocre quality. Really. Mycroft could’ve given him something better. Was it a subtle message to convey his disapproval? Probably. Mycroft loved that kind of silly games. Idiot.

Sherlock gave it another puff and exhaled the smoke against the window. He had once told himself he'd quit both this and his _other_ vice, but as usual, when things got too boring or too complicated, he couldn't help sinning yet again. 

He was smoking; therefore, his mind was in overdrive. Elementary. 

It wasn't, however, because of a case. No, there hadn't been any interesting cases lately. Nothing higher than a seven. Disappointing. 

No. It was of a much more... personal matter. That made him extra impatient. He tapped the back of a nearby chair and exhaled again.

Should he? He supposed he shouldn't. But then again, he was curious. He didn't feel the exhilarating thrill he felt with good cases – no, it wasn't that. It was much more ordinary. Yet... he loved to surprise people, to puzzle them by telling them things they felt sure he couldn't know. He _was_ a bit of a drama queen, after all.

What the hell. He would.

* * *

John sat with some of his colleagues in the hospital employees' canteen. Shifts were long and arduous, but the work was well paid, and with a baby at home, he couldn't say no. Except... he very much wanted to. He missed working with Sherlock, missed Sherlock, and hospital job just wasn't the same without Mary around. But no responsible father would leave a safe work and decrease their home income by almost two thirds, right? Right. So there he sat, eating last night's leftovers from a lunchbox, and almost depressed. Thank God he still had his colleagues to talk to.

His thoughts wandered to the conversation he had had with his wife the previous night, and he sighed. 

Okay, so he _did_ care deeply for Sherlock, and he _did_ feel attracted to him. He loved him. Always had, actually. But Sherlock was a self-labelled sociopath who believed love was a _human error_. A chemical imbalance. _It'd have been stupid of me to tell him the truth, right? It couldn't be then, and it certainly can't be now. I love Mary. I love her so much, and she's my wife, and the mother of my daughter. It's pretty clear._

Except now, Mary's words had grown deep roots within his mind. She had told him Sherlock loved him. He'd never allowed himself to believe that, not really. But now that another person said it... but... shit. So what? He was _married_. He couldn't split himself in half, could he?

Oh, but he wanted to. He wanted to. Christ. All those years admiring his odd flatmate, his brilliant friend. So smart and yet so oblivious. So cruel and yet so sweet. So cunning and yet so innocent. So... so extraordinary. Sherlock. Sherlock and his cheekbones and his – everything. John had never told anyone, not even Mary, about how he had _exactly_ felt after the – the _fall_. How much he had regretted not telling him he appreciated him, not telling him... but what was the point now? John didn't commit the same error twice, when he'd thought he'd die. That they both'd die, that day at the Tube. That cock. He had faked it on purpose, he was sure, just to make a prank... or, on second thoughts, to coax him into talking. Into saying things he'd never dare say otherwise – only John was so cowardly he didn't dare say them even on the brink of death. 

Well, neither did Sherlock, right? 

_'Sherlock's actually a girl's name'. Go to hell. At least I was able to say the most important part of the truth. My! But I'm being unfair. You_ did _say part of_ your _truth. In my_ wedding _day no less. You dick. Takes an official statement of my being with someone else for you to blurt out –_

“John, are you okay? You've spaced out.”

 _Quick, smile._ “It's nothing, Bill. I'm a bit tired, that's all.”

Padma, another colleague, looked at him with sympathy. “It's hard having a baby at home, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Haven't been sleeping well...”

“Well, mate. We're heading to Floor 3 for a coffee. You coming?” asked Bill.

“In a minute. I'll catch up later.”

“As you wish, you know where to find us. Bye!”

Bill, Padma and the other two doctors rose up and exited the canteen. Still thoughtful, John followed them in a much slower pace, and once in the corridor, he approached one of the windows. He stood in front of it, pretending to contemplate the streets below.

How could human relationships be so damn complex? Sometimes, he missed the simplistic brutality of war: I'm right, you're wrong, I command, you obey, and if you don't agree, I'll make you agree. Or I'll kill you. Ruthless, unethical, but extremely simple.

John made a sigh and headed towards Floor 3. 

* * *

It was a grey, cold and cloudy morning. It was September, but it didn't feel like it. It felt like chilly November. 

“Let's meet at Hyde Park, what'd you say?” 

Mary didn't answer; she was puzzled and a bit anxious. The palm holding her phone was moist.

“I can't leave the baby alone, Sherlock,” she answered finally. “What'd you want to meet up for, anyway?”

“Around 4 PM? John'll be still at work, right?”

She didn't answer again, and let the pause stretch.

“Okay then,” Sherlock finally said into her silence. “At 4 PM, between the Diana Memorial Fountain and the Serpentine. I'll be waiting.” And he hung up.

Mary felt an irrational fear creeping up from her stomach. _Nonsense_ , she thought, and went to fetch little Sherlock, who was sleeping soundly.

* * *

 

It still was a grey, cold and cloudy day in the afternoon, with few people roaming around. Mary came from the Serpentine Bridge, along the path that went to the Memorial, and found Sherlock standing next to the bird sculpture, facing the river. He was smoking with charming elegance, lost in his thoughts, a hand in his coat pocket, and his collars turned up. Mary smirked. She had to admit he was attractive, in a classy, black-and-white kind of way. His slender hands were manly, yet beautiful, manipulating the cigarette with finesse, as if it were made of glass. He had the same androgynous, fluid grace that proud horses and stealthy panthers had. Mary huffed and smiled with sadness. If she were a couple of decades younger, she would have fallen for him at first sight. She understood what John saw in their friend: a rare, sensuous gracefulness.

Her mouth had suddenly become dry, and her heart started beating faster. She approached him in silence, her peacefully sleeping baby wrapped close to her chest. 

* * * 

When Sherlock sensed her arriving, he exhaled the smoke he had in his lungs, threw the butt to the ground and stepped on it. Without a word, he pointed at a nearby bench, approached it and sat down. Mary followed him in a slower pace and stopped in front of him, without sitting down.

“Good afternoon, Mary” he finally said, “Or should I say, _Guten Nachmittag, Anja_?”

Her face became as white as a sheet of paper, and her body went rigid. 

“Don't worry,” said Sherlock, matter-of-factly. “It wasn't John. If he read your files, he didn't say a word to me.”

Mary was still standing, and standing quite still. For a moment, Sherlock feared it'd been too Not Good. 

“My name's Mary now,” she croaked, when her voice returned to her. He gestured for her to sit down, which she finally did.

“I thought you might've been curious about how I got the info,” said Sherlock, feeling somewhat disappointed. 

“John said he didn't read the files. Mycroft, then,” she answered, her pale face turned to yellowish.

“Yes.” 

Neither spoke for some dramatic seconds. Then Mary said: “So I presume I'm not a priority?”

Sherlock smirked. He had to admit she was smart. “Not unless Germany reclaims you.”

The woman snorted with bitterness. “Joy.”

“The _Rote Armee Fraktion_ disbanded seventeen years ago, Mary. You're no longer a threat.” He savoured the slightly surprised face she had made when he mentioned the name of her organisation. Oh, he so loved to outsmart people.

“I could've been instigating local insurrections in the UK,” Mary said.

“They know you didn't. Even though you kept training yourself in the woods. You were being closely watched.”

“I was aware. That's why I kept a low profile.”

“Precisely my point. You're no longer a threat.”

 _Bingo_. Somewhere under all those layers of Mary, Anja finally got irritated. “I can be if I want to,” she coldly said.

“Being forty-four years old, recently married, recuperating from a complicated childbirth and in charge of a newborn baby? I don't think so. And neither does Mycroft,” stated Sherlock smugly.

Mary huffed and let it go. “What if some politician wants me as a trophy for his electoral campaign?” she spat.

Sherlock softened a bit. “Let's hope not.”

“That's not good enough.”

“I know.”

They remained in silence for some time.

“You know,” Sherlock finally said, “I thought you were much younger. Closer to my age, actually. Thirty-something.” 

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” replied Mary with a half-smile. 

“A simple observation,” he retorted.

“An _inaccurate_ observation. I'm surprised, Sherlock.”

“You're a good liar, Anja.”

“Mary. And thank you.” 

They fell into silence once again, then he said: “So John doesn't know.” 

Mary tensed visibly. “He told me he hadn't read the files,” she confirmed.

“Did you feel relieved?”

“Very.”

“Why?”

Mary shot him a hard stare. “You _know_ why, Sherlock. He wouldn't have loved me any more.”

“Because of the killing part?”

She looked at him with an incredulous ' _really?_ ' face, and replied, “Because of the _Red Army_ part, Sherlock.”

“Oh. I see,” he said absent-mindedly, pondered for a moment, and added: “And how do _you_ stand loving a veteran of a so blatantly imperialist war people all over the world demonstrated against it?”

He was taunting her, and she knew it. Mary looked at him sharply.

“I was already in love when he told me that. The John I fell for is a kind, easy-going and friendly doctor. The John I love makes me laugh, makes me dinner, makes me love,” she retorted with cold fury. Sherlock clenched his jaw and ignored the almost immediate change in Mary’s facial expression.

“I'm sorry,” she quietly said.

“There's nothing to apologise for,” he answered with frosty pride. “Anyway,” he added, “if you can continue loving him even after knowing what he did, what makes you think he can't do the same?”

Now Mary's confidence really seemed to fail. “It was him who chose not to read the files, Sherlock.”

They remained silent for some minutes.

“You know, I'm curious,” Sherlock finally said. 

“About what?” she asked, a bit churlish once again.

“Magnussen told us you worked for the CIA. I’d have thought you abhorred them. Did you freelance for them?”

Mary’s - or was it Anja’s? - face turned as white as a sheet of paper. She seemed to be unable to say anything. Bit Not Good? But he had to know.

“Didn’t you?”

She fixed her eyes on the bird statue and her voice sounded strangled when she answered, “No.”

_Ah. I see._

“So it was the _Rote Armee_ itself who collaborated with the CIA?”

Mary - or was it Anja? - flinched at his words. “More like we were made use of,” she muttered. Her face was so white it had become almost purplish, her teeth were clenched and her eyes were hard like iron. Sherlock’s inner John was screaming ‘Not Good’ at the top of his lungs, but the piece of meat he’d bitten on was being too juicy to let go.

“Were there no objections amongst you?”

Mary pursed her lips for a moment, then relaxed them again.

“There were,” she growled. “But some of the CIA's strategic objectives were also our own. They did everything to facilitate our task and sold us arms at an interesting price.”

“In exchange of getting rid of some key businessmen, I presume?”

She didn’t seem to notice - but Sherlock had, naturally - that her hands had clenched into fists so hard her knuckles had turned white. Mary licked her lips. “Those men managed their companies in the ruthless pursuit of private profit, stomping on worker's rights in countries where they could get away with it,” she said in one breath.

“I deduce they were also a nuisance for some... _private interests_ back in the USA, am I wrong?” Sherlock couldn’t help smirking, but tried to smooth his face. He was being Not Good enough as it was. She didn’t answer, but Sherlock could read ‘Obviously’ written all over her face. Hey, he was getting good at it.

“Didn't that pose a problem for you? Integrity-wise, I mean,” he asked with false concern. He was enjoying himself. He was a cat, she was a mouse, and he was having fun playing with her. He should feel guilty, but he didn’t. 

Mary was sitting still and tense. “The top leadership decided it was a lesser evil in exchange for carrying out some of our strategic objectives.”

“Oh, I see,” said Sherlock, with smooth sarcasm. “When the Greater Good is at stake, my enemy’s enemies are my allies. But what would your people’ve said if they’d known? A bit risky, wasn’t it?”

 _Oops. Too Not Good?_ He must’ve put salt in some deep wound, because she flinched as if in physical pain. And at that very moment Sherlock realised - too late, as usual - why he was enjoying this so much.

 _Petty vengeance. Petty, childish, bitter vengeance for stealing my John away._ His mental Mycroft sneered at him. _Enjoy getting involved, brother dearest._

He felt a disagreeable coldness in his chest, a feeling he wasn’t too sure he could identify. Guilt? Remorse? “I’m sorry,” Sherlock muttered. Mary was blinking abnormally fast – eyes reddening, starting to swell; reddening nose, also starting to swell. Conclusion: she was on the verge of crying. But she didn’t cry, oh no. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, blew her nose quietly and put it away with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips. Not one tear had dared to escape. Sherlock swallowed. He was being ridiculous, immature. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he repeated, louder. Mary’s eyes were still fixed somewhere in front of them. _Quick. Change tactics._

“You know me,” he said, as lightly as he dared to speak. “I’ve got to maintain my high-functioning sociopath image. I can’t just stop being an arsehole.”

There. Win. A small smile on her too pale face. 

“I guess you _do_ know something about human nature, after all,” Mary said, with her eyes downcast. Sherlock sensed there was more than one message in that sentence, but he didn’t get them. So he did what he always did in those situations: he blinked and let it go. Mary seemed okay with it, though, as if she had come to terms with something. 

Neither talked for a few moments, and thank God, the tension between them dropped, until the silence became almost comfortable. Suddenly, the baby stirred awake, claiming her mother's attention. Sherlock felt a mild interest. _Odd._

“So. What is it like to be a mother?” he asked, trying very hard to be Good for once, but even _he_ was aware of his awkward politeness. Mary smiled weakly at his efforts to be friendly. Better than nothing.

“Tiring,” she answered. The baby was hungry, it seemed. She unbuttoned her coat, her jersey and her shirt to breast-feed her. Suddenly curious, Sherlock stared. She caught him, which made him avert his eyes towards the statue. 

“What is it like?” he finally dared to ask, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

Mary smirked and replied, “Pleasurable.”

He said nothing, but he knew Mary noticed she had managed to embarrass him a bit. Her smirk grew larger, but didn't say anything else. They fell into a surprisingly comfortable silence. After some long minutes, Mary broke it.

“Sherlock... thank you for everything you've done for me and John.” He suddenly turned very still; he was beginning to feel a knot in his throat. Mary continued speaking with a small smile. “You may be a high-functioning sociopath, but you certainly are loyal and committed to those you love. When you want.”

Now Sherlock felt really bad for having been such an arse before. He was positively embarrassed, and… inexplicably afraid. Mary spoke again. “You know John loves you back, right?”

Sherlock turned his warm face to look at Mary; he could feel his hair rising. She swallowed visibly and averted her eyes to the river. Mary remained silent for a long moment; and then, she dropped the bomb. “I mean, the _same_ kind of love you've got for him.”

The comfortable silence had turned to brittle glass once again.

“I'm smart, Mary, but I'm not sure I follow you.”

Mary took a deep breath and exhaled it. She looked nervous and unsure of what she was doing. But she was courageous, Sherlock would give her that.

“Look,” she said, “I'm still confused with how I feel about you two. I once told you, I'd do anything to keep John by my side. I'm deeply in love with him. That's why –”

“That's why you'd rather share him with another person than run the risk of losing him completely?” interrupted Sherlock acidly. 

“That's why I don't want to see him suffer,” she shot back, annoyed. But Sherlock knew he'd nailed it. She added, “And I don't want to see _you_ suffer, for that matter.” 

Sherlock calmed down a bit, but he still felt cold inside. They didn't dare utter a word for a few seconds, then Sherlock said, “Well... After all, you _did_ come second.” 

But Mary too seemed to know how to have a sharp tongue when she wanted, and retorted, “Yet you yielded easily the first place.” 

An eye for an eye. Sherlock smirked with bitterness.“True.”

The baby had long stopped feeding and lay asleep next to her mother's exposed breast. She seemed to notice that, and carefully replaced her clothing.

“Beautiful breast,” said Sherlock out of the blue. _Let’s see if she keeps her balance._

Mary simply snorted. “They're bigger when one's breastfeeding.”

“I meant it's got a beautiful shape.”

Mary looked at him with suspicion, but after some time, chose to ignore his remark. _Keeps her balance, indeed._

“Have you talked to John about this?” inquired Sherlock.

“About my breasts' shape and size?” she retorted, and he couldn't help smiling a little. _Keeps her balance while giving the finger. Not a goldfish._ He liked that side of her. He liked _her_ , he realised.

“No,” he answered with calm, and added, “about our charming little... what would you call it...? ...love triangle?”

Mary shifted uncomfortably. “A bit,” she answered.

“How much?”

She took a deep breath. “I told him I noticed the sexual tension between you,” she replied flatly. “And that you two obviously care deeply for each other.” She paused a moment, somewhat unsure, then slowly added, “I also told him I felt a bit like an intruder, like an obstacle between you two. It makes me feel bad.”

“I can kind of relate to that feeling,” he muttered quietly, humbled by her honesty. He saw Mary's throat clench. She fixed her eyes on the bird statue in front of her. When she spoke again, her voice was under control. “We needn't continue this way.”

“And what do you propose?” inquired Sherlock gravely.

“I think that's pretty clear.”

He snorted. “I hate that feminine way of beating around the bush.”

“And I hate it when smart people play dumb,” she retorted.

They fell silent for a minute, then Mary stated, “I think you should talk to John.”

Sherlock huffed. “Men don't _talk_ , Mary.”

“Yeah, that's your biggest flaw.”

“Says a woman.”

They both suppressed a grin, and remained in silence until Mary ventured: “Okay, so do _whatever_ men do to sort this out with John.”

“Shouldn't _you_ talk to him?”

“I thought that was an annoying woman thing?”

“I thought that was a lovey-dovey couple thing.”

Mary grinned triumphantly. “Then, as a lovey-dovey couple that you two are, will you talk to John too?”

Sherlock huffed. “I hate that feminine way of beating around the bush.”

“I love you too, honey.”

They both smiled at the bird statue in front of them, savouring the friendly silence they had created. After some time, though, reality sobered them.

“I've _never_ tried anything like this, Sherlock, I warn you,” said Mary seriously. “I don't know how this... love triangle or whatever is going to work. I don't know how I'll react once you're... _officially_ together. I'll do my best to manage my feelings,” she promised solemnly. “I hope you'll have the same courtesy.”

“Well, do your best with your bleeding heart,” replied Sherlock with sarcasm. “I'll do my best to melt my rock.”

“That sounded wrong.”

“Grow up.”

“Too late.”

Sherlock suppressed a snigger and Mary feigned a cough to conceal hers.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Don't you have a watch?”

Mary rolled her eyes and looked at her mobile phone.

“So?” asked Sherlock. “What time is it?”

She shot him a half-annoyed, half-amused look. “Five PM. I should go home,” she said, and stood up.

“Is John free tomorrow evening?” inquired Sherlock.

“I think so.” She seemed suddenly off. 

“Will you 'talk' to him when he comes home today?”

Mary shifted her weight to her other leg. “I could...”

“Excellent. Then I'll 'talk' to him tomorrow evening.”

“Okay,” she quietly said.

Sherlock rose up with renewed energy. He was happy, happier than he thought was able to feel, as if a weight he hadn't noticed he carried had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

“Thanks, Mary,” he said with honesty, caught her forearms between his hands and kissed her cheeks. “We'll keep in touch.” He then waved a goodbye and walked towards the Serpentine bridge, his hands stuffed in his dark coat's pockets and his collars turned up. He rushed home.

***

Mary looked at her phone. 5:20 PM. God. And she was still sitting on the bench. 

Everything had gone smoothly. No melodrama, no suspicions and a manageable level of venom. Exactly as hoped.

That’s why she hadn’t expected to feel the vertigo she still felt in her stomach; a cold, sick dread that twisted her insides. A fear that hadn’t gripped her at first - before she _really_ realised _that_ was going to happen.

She was going to... _share_ John with Sherlock. And now, she couldn’t back out.

Mary felt nauseous. She sincerely hoped she had done the right thing.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence. 
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


	3. Sir Lancelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There might be some sexual triggers. Please be aware.**
> 
> Thanks again to **sideris** , who turned my text into something at least readable.  
> Thanks also to **hoodoo** for re-reading this and bearing with me.
> 
> If you like Sherlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ooOoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John was annoyed. Infuriated. _Pissed off_.

“I see why I like you both,” he shot acidly at his wife, who looked at him apologetically. “You're so very alike in _not_ taking my opinion into account.”

Mary's face showed guilt, mixed with a streak of anger. Or was it hurt? John didn't know.

“Has anyone _ever_ considered what _I_ want?” he exclaimed, exasperated and no longer able to control his frustration. He was tired. He was exhausted. Work had been long and arduous, he had been forced to do extra hours, it was 10 PM and the last thing he expected to find at home was a synopsis of the encounter that, apparently, Sherlock and Mary had had behind his back. He was hungry as well, or rather, had been. The fork lay still on top of the spaghetti that was probably cold by now. 

Mary spoke carefully. “You don't approve of the arrangement?”

“I don't _know_!” he exclaimed, then looked at one of the windows and back to his wife. She was clearly upset. 

“John, please. The baby.”

John fixed his eyes on the window once more, in order to avoid looking at Mary. He remained silent; he didn't know what he felt, what he thought, what to say.

“I did it for your sake, John,” she said quietly. “And for Sherlock's sake.”

John pursed his lips. He didn't want to argue, but he was in a turmoil; so confused, so upset, words came out of his mouth with no filter at all. 

“No emotional blackmail, Mary, please.”

Her voice sounded hurt when she answered. 

“I'm not trying to blackmail you, John, I'm trying to _help_.”

John huffed acidly. “You can't help it, can you? You can't help trying to fix what you think is wrong, no matter the consequences.” His voice came out gentler than his words, though. “You did the same back then. When I was grieving,” he added, and looked at his wife. She had a sad half-smile.

“Sherlock wants to meet you tomorrow evening.” 

“I know,” he answered, “he texted me.” He was so tired he couldn't think straight. 

“I love you, Mary, you know that,” he said wearily, his eyes fixed on Mary's.

“I know.”

“Could've fooled me.”

This time, it was Mary who averted her eyes. She looked so miserable that John felt remorse, and tried to explain himself. 

“I mean, I hope you're not doing this because you feel you don't deserve my full attention and love or that kind of bullshit.”

Mary snorted in derision, but the effect was spoiled by the tears that began forming in her eyes. Oh, dear. John rose up, skirted the table, knelt down and hugged his wife with all his strength. He didn't say anything, he just smoothed her back and let her cry on his shoulder.

Oh, dear. What was happening here?

* * *

They had moved to their bedroom. Mary sat at one side of the bed, somewhat calmer. John was in front of her, not sure of in which leg he should put his weight on.

“Mary...” he said cautiously, “you know you can talk to me, right?”

She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Yes, John.” 

“Is it something I've done?”

Mary seemed to ponder on how to answer. “... not really,” she finally said. “It's just...” She paused. “I... it's lonely in here.” Her gaze was fixed on her hands. “I mean, I'm used to being surrounded by people... I like busy, lively human herds,” she said, attempting humour. John answered her effort with a weak half-smile. “But now... I always seem to be at home... I almost never see my friends. I only get to see them when they get a few hours off from work... and you...” She fell silent.

“And me?” asked John, a bit scared of the answer. 

Mary spoke somewhat reluctantly. “You... well, you're almost never home...” John felt a weight in his stomach. “... and when you are... Well, I suppose it's because you're very tired, but...”

“I'm either in front of the telly or in front of the laptop, right?” he guessed with bitterness, and Mary's silence was all the answer he needed. He sighed and rubbed his face with a hand.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't suspected something was wrong. It was obvious: Mary felt alone. It was true she had to spend a great deal of time at home because of her own health – her labour had been a complicated one – and because of the baby, and because _someone_ had to do at least the _minimum_ of house chores. Because the ugly truth was he spent around ten hours a day at the hospital; because, _obviously_ , why hire more doctors if the ones at hand can do the extra work for less money? 

And then when he returned home, he was so utterly exhausted he could barely wash the dishes and fall on the sofa watching TV or aimlessly browsing the Internet. Being a doctor wasn't just about finding what was wrong with a patient's body – oh, no, far from that. He had to deal with _people_ , had to treat them understandingly, politely, even if _they_ weren't polite and understanding in return. Most of the time he had to tug the answers out of them to have as much data about the symptoms as he could, but he had to be careful not to be rude or forceful. Dealing with people was like dealing with china, John thought; only he had the extra difficulty of having to deal with people who were in pain or scared or _both_ – God, they thought he was some kind of magician who could find the exact source of their pain right away, and could work a miracle and heal them with a click of his fingers. 

When he got home, he barely had the energy to be civil to Mary, let alone to interact properly with her. He only wanted to rest, to relax, to do the least possible effort in any sense. And when he didn't have to work at the hospital, there was little baby Sherlock to take care of – and some of the house chores, and... Oh, dear. No wonder Mary felt neglected. When was the last time they had shared some intimacy, anyway?

Mary... she used to be so lively; she was hardly a quiet house-wifey. Yet she had been forced to act like one. John sighted and sat next to her.

“I'm really sorry, dear,” he said with grave honesty.

One corner of Mary's mouth twisted.

“It's hardly your fault, John. We need the money, after all. I know you're not enjoying being jailed in that hospital. You miss working with Sherlock, don't you?” She gave him a weak smile. “It was more exciting, and you had more free time, right?”

John looked down and fixed his eyes on his palms. Neither spoke for some minutes.

“Although...” she suddenly said, her brows furrowed, deep in thought. “We do have some money saved, don't we?”

He looked at her feeling unsure. Mary spoke again: “You could take a break... take time to be with the baby and help me with house chores... help Sherlock with his cases...”

Her voice was speculative, but the more John thought about it, the more tempting it became. “It's a bit risky…,” he reckoned. “But... we do have some money. No, not a bad idea... I've been missing you a lot...”

“Both me and Sherlock, right?” said Mary with a sad smile.

“Well – yes...” he admitted quietly, then frowned. “But, the money... what if –?”

Mary, however, seemed to have regained part of her strength by then. “We'll manage somehow, John. People manage to survive with much less, and still be happy. We'll manage. I want us to be together. I want us to be happy. That's part of the reason why I proposed this... arrangement with Sherlock.”

John was speechless. He looked at his wife with a mixture of respect, affection and concern. God, he loved that woman; she was _good_. Strong. Reliable and collaborative and played fair and did talk to him, sooner or later, instead of expecting him to guess how she felt. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, leant towards Mary and kissed her.

“All right,” he said. “But if anything bothers you, anything at all... if you feel something's going wrong... tell me, okay?” Mary gave him a weak smile. 

“Okay,” she said, “but the same goes for you, John.” He felt his heart pounding faster and he mirrored her expression. 

“Of course, Mary.” He hugged her tightly and kissed her lips in a chaste way, then the base of her neck, and he kissed his way up to the back of her ear.

“John?” asked Mary, cautiously. “You must be tired from work...”

He grinned. “And you must be tired of waiting, right?”

She smiled, but replied, “Well... you know I haven't been keen on sex since I gave birth...”

John sobered instantly. “Would you rather not?”

Mary pondered for a moment. “Well... to tell you the truth... I think the itch is coming back.” She grinned sheepishly. “It's already been five months...”

“Is that a yes?” he said with exaggerated eagerness, and she made a short laugh. 

“You needn't force yourself, you know?” she said.

John grinned. “Come on, Mary,” he said playfully, “Let me.” Then he became more serious and added, “And I hope you know you needn't force yourself either.”

Mary kissed him tenderly and answered, “I'll tell you if it doesn't work for me.” 

They remained in a comfortable silence until John gave a naughty, somewhat timid half-smile and said: “So... the game is on?” Mary laughed again, a bit abashed herself. 

“The game is on,” she repeated.

 

* * *

 

He was being especially sweet and thoughtful. He wanted to; he wanted to take his time. Mary had been quite off sex after giving birth, and he knew it was a delicate moment for her. He was still unsure whether she'd enjoy herself as much as she used to, but they could always try.

He had almost forgotten how sexy Mary was. He usually saw her as his friend, his love, his flatmate; he did think she was beautiful, but once in bed, he remembered – she was sexy as well. He loved his wife's facial wrinkles, which accentuated her expressions. And he loved Mary's expressions when they were in bed.

He was laying on top of her, supporting his weight with an elbow. His other hand was unbuttoning her pyjama top, and each button he freed, he replaced it with a kiss. God, he had missed this. He had missed this and hadn't even been aware he had. Jesus. Mary breathed faster now; her salty skin was hot like boiling water. Her chest and her cheeks were pink, her lips rosy, as rosy as her perked nipples – God, she was _gorgeous_.

Slowly, he undressed Mary completely and took a moment to observe her. Her body was more or less back to the shape it had had before pregnancy; there was a caesarean section scar on her lower abdomen. Her breasts were bigger because of the breastfeeding, and there were stretch marks on her belly. He looked back at her face, and found a shadow of a doubt in her eyes. Silly woman, he thought. He reached for her lips and gave her a long kiss. When they broke apart, Mary voiced her concern.

“My body's not exactly the same it was...” 

“Have you grown a third arm somewhere?” John playfully replied. 

Mary grinned, took the hint, and answered, “Just above my knee. We could do lots of naughty things.”

He grinned as well, replied, “Let's,” and kissed her below her ear, a spot he knew she liked. He didn't know whether it was because of the dry spell, or because the accumulated stress and tension, but his body was responding with alarming eagerness. He made a trail of kisses from her neck to her breasts, and paused to look at her questioningly. 

“Can I?” he asked, and Mary looked at him with uncertainty. 

“I don't know”, she quietly answered, “It feels weird somehow. I mean, I've become used to them being sucked by the baby...”

John hesitated a moment, then said, “Let's try with just my hands...” He gently cupped one of her breasts and gave a soft squeeze, then he caressed it cautiously. He looked at her questioningly, and found her with her eyes closed and her mouth half-opened. Suppressing a grin, he continued with his gentle caresses in both breasts, and chuckled when Mary moaned and pushed her chest towards him.

“I thought you'd be rather put off...” he remarked.

Mary opened an eye and answered, “I was at first. But my nipples seem to be more sensitive now...” And she smiled sheepishly. Damn, she was sexy. Her pose was languid, sensual, alluring – she probably wasn't even aware of the extent in which she was arousing him. John reached for one of her nipples and softly played with it; Mary shivered and inhaled heavily. 

“I wish you could see yourself,” said John, his eyes fixed on her expression of pleasure. “You're beautiful, Mary.” 

She replied with a lazy smile and caressed his back and his neck. His hands continued to pay attention to her breasts and her nipples, and Mary moaned. She found his scalp and massaged it with her fingers; John answered by giving a soft bite to one side of her neck. He loved it, he loved to feel her fingers on his hair, and involuntarily purred. He licked his way up to Mary's cheek. She smiled and kissed him languidly. She arched further into his touch, until they silently decided his clothes were in the way. John stood on his knees and took off his shirt, but when he went for his pants, she stopped him.

“Let me do it,” she breathed, and climbed up John's torso while caressing and kissing him. He knew his eyes must have become as unfocused and hazed as hers. His hands rested on Mary's hair, playing with it while she explored his body. She reached for his waistband and carefully pushed it down, freeing the erection. With a mischievous smile, she pressed her cheek against it and looked up. 

John closed his eyes and heard the grin in her voice when she said, “You know I like doing this.” 

John's voice was surprisingly husky when he answered, “Not as much as _I_ like you doing it.” 

Mary huffed in amusement, took his cock in her hand, licked the top and then put it inside her mouth. Pleasure was such that John couldn't help humming; God, it had been _ages_ since... hmm. His grip in her hair tightened and he frowned of pleasure; he hadn't realised how much he missed that very physical bliss of Mary's wet heat massaging his sensitive skin. Pleasure engulfed his cock in a liquid clasp that shot electric waves up his nerves each time she moved her tongue, her lips, her mouth. John groaned and put both his hands on her shoulders. 

“Mary – ”

She stopped and looked at him with her eyebrows raised, her eyes darkened with desire. He knew he was flushed. 

“Mary,” he with a raspy voice, “I don't want to leave you behind.” 

She smirked. “I _do_ get aroused by doing this, John, you know it.” 

“I know,” he answered with a lazy half-smile. “But I'm dangerously near. It _has_ been ages, after all.” 

Mary replied with a sexy, mischievous grin. “All right, then,” she said, “Lie on your back. You're tired after all, huh?”

John replied with her same flirty tone while doing what his wife had told him. “I am. But you're not doing this for poor old me, right?”

Mary giggled. “You know how much I enjoy being on top.” She took some cushions and placed them against the headboard. 

“Lay your back against that,” she added. 

John gave her a questioning look and an expectant smile, did as he had been told, and waited for her to straddle him. This was slightly new. It was true she liked being on top, and to be honest, he liked their current position as well. But it was the first time she'd put him in this particular position - half-sitting, half-lying. He looked at his wife's eager eyes while she lowered herself onto him, and his heart started beating faster. Lust had changed her expression, her eyes were half closed and unfocused; her full breasts dangled tantalisingly close to his mouth. She then rubbed her lower self against his cock, making her moan, and making him take a sharp inhalation. God, it felt awesome. She hadn't let him inside her, though – but it was awesome nonetheless; wet, soft and hot like hell. She arched her back in such a way that her perked breasts were now rubbing John's cheeks; he wouldn't have stopped himself even if he'd been able to: he took a nipple in his mouth and licked it. Mary exhaled sensually, apparently too caught up in desire to care about what Freud would say. Something primal awakened in John, and he gave a somewhat stronger thrust; she let her head fall back and started rubbing against him with renewed enthusiasm. 

***

Mary's breathing was fast and shallow. She moaned softly each time her clitoris rubbed his erection, pleasure running through her nerves like low-intensity electric shocks. She looked down and her heart skipped a beat. John was so deft at turning her on when he decided to be charming, when lust glazed his eyes, when the focus of his determination was her body. His tongue was playing with her nipples with gentle insistence, and a pleasant tingling radiated over all of her body. Mary closed her eyes.

John. He was so kind, so easy-going, so respectful. She fell for him over and over again – his smiles of understanding, of joy, of love; his mellow dimples, his expressive eyes. He was – he truly was her best friend, her most intimate and understanding friend. It took her a lifetime to meet a man like him – but she had. She found him. John. 

Mary moaned softly. She could feel tingling pleasure coming from her breasts and the wet heat below, a liquid lust she thought she'd lost after the baby. Wave after wave of bliss built up in her body, like heat builds up in an oven, until it finally exploded, submerging her body in a lake of warm euphoria, and making her moan louder and deeper than before. She felt limp and utterly satiated, but John hadn't finished, so she continued to move. 

***

John was close, he could feel it. Mary reaching her peak had aroused him still further – his eyes were fixed on her dangling breasts, fascinated by the new phenomenon of white liquid spilling from her nipples; his ears were filled by her sounds of pleasure, her body rubbed against his and her wet folds were coaxing his cock into – and that was it. He went rigid and closed his eyes, the pressure that had built up within him finally breaking through its barriers and pouring bliss into his nervous system.

They remained in that position for some time, enjoying the intimacy of the aftermath and the warm contact of each other's skin. Their hearts were starting to beat more slowly, their breathing was deeper and more relaxed. She kissed his cheeks and lips with tenderness and had a grin of contentment John felt very proud of. He was unable to suppress a silly smile at Mary’s glowing face and her joyful chuckle. How could they have been so stressed and tired to not even miss such pleasure? Following a sudden urge, John hugged Mary tightly and burrowed his face in her neck.

“Tomorrow won't change anything between you and me, Mary,” he said, his voice muffled by her hair and his feelings. “I don't want it to – I _won't_ leave you behind.”

Mary smiled softly at his timid attempt to lighten the mood, and answered him by kissing his forehead. “I know,” she assured him, but he knew that deep down, she was dreading tomorrow.

 

* * *

City lights illuminated the night and coloured the streets' dark puddles, but did little to ease John Watson's nervousness. 'Tomorrow' had arrived, and once more, he felt split between what he sarcastically called his 'Dr Watson' and his 'Mr Hyde' sides. He felt a rush of adrenaline; anticipation, fear, hope, dread.

Sherlock. Sherlock and 221b Baker Street and their daredevil lifestyle. Memories came rushing to his mind, lost memories of happy times. He felt excited to meet Sherlock again, to meet him in their old flat. But he felt guilty as well. Guilty because of Mary, because of the baby. Mary and their daughter in the cold, silent, lonely gloom of their house. He felt an iron grip of pain constricting his chest. He shouldn't be allowed this chance, he shouldn't. But he was. By some cosmic miracle he'd married a woman who had allowed it. Who had allowed _them_ : him and Sherlock.

_Christ. I've missed you, Sherlock. Missed you so much and yet life rushed around me and before I knew it months had passed. We've been meeting, of course. Of course. For your cases. To have tea with Mrs Hudson. But it feels like we're, I don't know... acquaintances. And we're not. We're so much more than that. We were so much more than that. God, Sherlock. Is it too late for us? I don't want it to be. Better late than never, they say. Oh, Mary. Oh, Mary, Mary; thank you so much. This must be hurting you and yet you allowed us. I'm shameless. I'm despicable._

_Get a grip on yourself, John Hamish Watson. Breathe. Continue walking. Continue walking down Baker Street. Continue walking home. Your other home._

He hesitated a great deal though, before ringing the bell of _home_ ; so much that he was late. When he finally entered 221b Baker Street's living room, he found Sherlock exactly as he had expected to find him: feeding some kind of foul-looking liquid to a poor laboratory rat.

“I see you made it on time, John!” he greeted him.

“I'm late,” John replied flippantly.

“Only because you took fifteen minutes hesitating on my doorstep. Do you fancy a Chinese take away?”

John smiled with a sudden overflow of nostalgia. It felt like living once more at Baker Street, like having his old flatmate back, like sharing his live again with Sherlock – something he, like yesterday with Mary, hadn't realised he'd been missing.

“Why not?” he finally answered, “I'm starting to get hungry.”

“Excellent! Would you mind making the call?”

John almost laughed. How could he have missed this cheeky git? But he made the phone call anyway. 

“So,” he said afterwards, “I know you must've told me, but... did you catch the one behind the Moriarty thing?”

Sherlock was covering the cage with a dark cloth; he frowned slightly and replied with his eyes fixed on his hands. “The _ones_. Lestrade did. Or so he claims... he's wrong, obviously, but I can't do anything about it. But that was ages ago. Even if you don't listen to what I tell you any more, haven't you been watching the news?”

John felt an acute pain in his chest, as if Sherlock had stuck a needle in it. He tried to conceal it and excused himself with a smile. “I've been very busy lately, and quite out of touch.”

“Only soap operas?” asked Sherlock, looking up with a mocking glint in his eyes. John huffed half-annoyed, half-abashed. 

“Only soap operas,” he said.

“I thus deduce you've spoken with your wife?” he asked, straightening up.

John shifted awkwardly. “I did.”

“So?” Sherlock said while reaching for the cage’s top handle. John wasn’t fooled by Sherlock’s well-practiced tone of indifference, and swallowed. 

“She broke down in tears.”

Sherlock stopped in mid-motion; he had a deeper frown and a serious stare. 

“She feels neglected,” John muttered defensively. 

Sherlock broke his stillness and gripped the handle, fixing his eyes on the cage and remaining silent. He then lifted the cage abruptly; the rat squealed, and Sherlock gave John a grave side-glance. 

“So do I,” he replied flatly, shocking John into silence. “I've hardly seen you since your daughter was born, John.” He paused and the air between them was electric. He fixed his eyes on the cage and quietly added, “I missed you.”

John stood in surprised silence for several seconds. “How am I supposed to answer _that_?” he finally said, puzzled and a bit frightened by Sherlock's unusual frankness. 

But Sherlock’s eternal mask of detachment was back on; his tall, slender frame carrying and stashing the cage away in busy, elegant motions. John blinked, momentarily caught up by Sherlock’s grace. It was the first time he was acutely aware that Sherlock’s movements were so fluid he almost looked like he was dancing. 

Sherlock broke into his reverie. “Just say no, and then yes,” he said, as if it were the most obvious platitude in the world. John felt a familiar spark of mild annoyance. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he huffed, “you know I hate it when you speak that way.”

Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smirk. It’d been a taunt. John knew it, and he still fell for it. Damn Sherlock, he thought, but couldn’t help mirroring his friend’s smile. Sherlock leant back against the edge of the table, his eyes as playful as his smile.

“Say no to your current work, and yes to working with me.” He raised his eyebrows in mock seriousness. “I won't be a tyrannical boss, I swear. I'll pet you now and then.” John snorted, pretending not to be amused. Sherlock’s face became suddenly more serious. 

“You spend all your day holed up in that hospital, John, don't you?” Sherlock was going to add something, but the doorbell rang. “Ah! It must be the take away,” he exclaimed, and rant to fetch it. He returned in a flash, put the boxes on the living room table and added, “Do you want a beer? I've got some in the fridge.”

John’s mood was still a bit forlorn. “Okay,” he said mildly.

“They're on the top shelf,” Sherlock cheekily answered, and sat down in his armchair. John sighed, softened his expression and went to the kitchen; when he looked back, he saw his friend’s barely concealed smile of anticipation. John gave a half-smile of complicity, opened the fridge and continued to play along. 

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed, pretending to be more horrified than he was. “You've got _human feet_ in the fridge!” 

“On the top shelf!” Sherlock replied, and opened his box. He seemed to be in the best humour ever.

* * *

'A beer' had become three beers each, and although they weren't wholly drunk, they had enough alcohol in their veins to loosen their tongues. They were sitting in their respective comfy chairs; Sherlock seemed to be relatively sober, but John couldn’t help noticing the slight mist that threatened to fog his own mind.

“I don't earn that much money,” Sherlock blurted out. “But the job compensates for it.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, “but I've got a baby, remember?”

Sherlock smirked. “Yeah, she's quite something. Did you read her files?” 

John felt his face become hot. “What the hell, Sherlock?”

“She didn't tell you that part?”

“Which part?”

“MI5's got her files. Mycroft showed me.”

“Is she in trouble?” John inquired, anxious.

“Not for now.”

“But isn't the UK obliged to share intel on internationally sought – ?”

“So you did read her files, right?” cut Sherlock, an infuriating glee on his eyes. John felt annoyed.

“Well, yeah, I did. So what?”

“But you told her you didn't?”

“She told you that?” exclaimed John, vexed.

Sherlock smiled with smugness. “We talked about many things, John,” he said, then sipped at his fourth beer. Suddenly, the atmosphere became awkward. 

John tentatively said, “She told you... about...?”

Sherlock averted his gaze and fixed it on his glass of beer. “About an 'arrangement' between us three? She insinuated, yeah.”

John flushed a bit. “What do you think about that?” he quietly asked.

“What do _you_ think about that?”

John fell silent. “If you two don't mind,” he finally said, “I guess I don't either.”

Sherlock chuckled in an infuriating way. “No,” he replied, “Of course you don't.”

That annoyed John a bit. “Look, I think Mary's having a hard time. I think she proposed this... 'arrangement' in spite of herself, of her feelings. I don't want to hurt her.”

Sherlock's look became serious. “Well,” he said, “I did put on a smiling face about your marriage in spite of myself too.”

John's mind suddenly sharpened. “I thought you didn't mind –”

“Naturally,” cut in Sherlock with arrogance, “I made you think so.” But there was sadness underneath.

John fixed his eyes in a corner, then quietly spoke. “I was convinced you cared about me much less than I cared about you.” 

Sherlock answered as quietly as he had. “I thought that myself.” He paused. “But then I realised.”

John was barely aware he had clenched a fist. “And it was too late by then,” he guessed. 

Sherlock looked at the ceiling. “Too late,” he confirmed, absent mindedly. “And too many mistakes.”

John was astonished at his friend's prolonged honesty and introversion. “Where's the high-functioning sociopath I know?” he asked, wanting to lighten the mood. 

Sherlock smiled and answered, “In – front of you. My God, your observation skills are terrible, John.” 

John giggled and pretended to have heard ‘in love’ instead of ‘in front of you’, but remained silent. Sherlock would probably make fun of him if he ever confessed such a thing. He took his can and emptied it.

John got the distinct impression the atmosphere had changed. He licked his lips; he had never seen Sherlock so open, never had he been so aware of his gaze, of the hot lava of his eyes. The certainty of each other's interest and the new freedom to express it had changed the rules of their game, and John found himself lost. Suddenly, he felt the need to swallow and to avert his eyes to the unopened beer can that lay on the table. He took it and opened it mechanically, just to distract himself from the sudden tension in the air. It had been so long since he felt so nervous in such a situation, he had almost forgotten what it was to feel that way, to feel like a – well, like a clueless teenager. He was so used being a Don Juan, winning at cards with a poker heart, having the game _under control_ – he felt puzzled at the burning need in his chest, at the fast and painful heartbeat, at the sudden inability to look at Sherlock in the eye. This had never happened to him with Mary. No; with Mary it'd been different – a much healthier love. With Mary, he'd felt the need to _seek_ her eyes, to smile at them. But this thing he was feeling for Sherlock... was _fever_.

Oh, but he was also a soldier, a courageous one, and a proud one too. It wouldn't do for Don Juan to shy away like a prude. So he steadied his breath, took a sip of beer and looked at Sherlock with what he hoped was a calm gaze and a friendly half-smile. 

And then, Sherlock did the unthinkable: he blushed. 

Except, that blush actually fueled John's knot of fire under his ribcage. Sherlock was a smart man. He was attractive, he was charming, he was proud and cold and radiated confidence; he was the one who usually took the lead, the one who gave orders expecting them to be obeyed as if he were a prince or something – and yet there he was, shy, blushing, as quiet as a bunny trapped by a fox. 

That was intoxicating, John decided, but it didn't last as long as he'd have liked, because Sherlock could be as stubborn and proud and poker faced as John and then some. His friend had effectively fought down his expression into something closer to neutrality, and his gaze was fixed on his glass. That cooled John down a bit; he took a sip of beer and stared at the empty space between them. 

Then, he took a deep breath and said, “If only I'd told you three years ago about –” and his voice broke, unable to continue speaking. His lust was being quickly replaced by melancholy.

Sherlock was looking at the far side of the living room when he replied, “You wouldn't have met Mary. And at that time, I would've been scared. I would've run away from you.”

“You ran away anyway,” John reproached with weary bitterness. 

There was sharp pain in Sherlock's eyes as he quietly replied, “I'm sorry, John. I really am.” John's feelings sweetened in front of his friend's honesty, and answered him with a timid smile that Sherlock mirrored. Dr Watson was back.

But then, Sherlock broke the atmosphere with a melodramatic sigh. 

“I think I'm a bit too inebriated,” he stated. “Is it me or is it hot in here?” and stood up to open a window. 

John blurted out a laugh and decided to let Mr Hyde loose again. “It's you,” he replied with a flirty smile, “I mean, it's you who's hot here.” Sherlock's face became delightfully pink, but this time, he wasn't as unprepared as before.

“I therefore deduce you feel pretty cool, don't you?” he cheekily shot back, “By implying I'm the only one feeling the heat.” 

John chuckled at his friend's witty feistiness and gave up trying to outsmart him with clever comebacks. 

“Let me feel cool for once, Sherlock,” he replied with gentle playfulness, “you're usually the one looking cool.” The flattery, like all the flattery he'd given him before, hit bull's eye: his friend's satisfied face was almost comical. Then Mr Hyde smirked and the room's temperature dropped and rose at the same time. 

“Come on,” he said with a darker, deeper voice. “Let's go to your room.”

Sherlock's demeanour had radically changed as well, his smart cheekiness sobered by nervousness. But he wasn't going to run away; John knew. Not this time.

“Let's,” he answered, and led John to his bedroom. 

* * *

Once in Sherlock's room, Don Juan hesitated a bit, his heart beating faster than he'd anticipated. Sherlock was Sherlock after all, his _best friend_ ; not a what's-her-name-again he'd just picked up. John felt Dr Watson and Mr Hyde measuring each other with their gaze, like cats sizing each other up before a fighting. 

Sherlock's voice startled him. “Here we are,” he said with his deep, velvety voice. “Now what?”

John felt uncomfortably weak and nervous. Both Dr Watson and Mr Hyde seemed to have abandoned him, making him feel like an inexperienced teenager once more. Irritating. Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared more confident and dangerous. He started walking towards John, at a deliberately slow pace that seemed to charge the air with electricity. John breathed deeply, never averting his eyes from his friend's.

“Now the game's on,” John replied, trying to break the tension with some humour. 

Sherlock answered with a half-smile, but it had the opposite effect – it raised the heat of the air between them, instead of cooling it down. But John didn't care that much – he was starting to go with the flow, and at that moment, he knew – Mr Hyde had won. Like he always did when he was with Sherlock, his dear Sherlock, his very best friend and – he was so tantalising; he was wearing his black shirt, the one with the open collar, so sexy, dammit – and John realised, he realised Sherlock _knew_ he liked that shirt; Sherlock knew it looked good on him and had put it on on purpose, had _always_ put it on on purpose; that wicked boy playing man, dammit – so hot, so cool, so confident, so prince-like, and yet; he gave off a kind of a male Lolita-y impression – Or was it just his own twisted imagination? – It must be, it must be one of his unconsciousness' tricks – the lustful outcome of some deep, sick deficiency or something – Freud must be laughing _so_ hard in his grave – but – 

But John honestly didn't give a damn. Didn't _want_ to give a damn. He was attracted to Sherlock, loved him, lusted after him – whatever, damn, no need to define it, to justify it. Just go with the flow. Full stop.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had approached John and stood in front of him, mere inches from his body, radiating heat like an overworked laptop. He smelled nice. John was quite aware of it; hell, they had shared the same shampoo and shaving foam for so long he knew where that smell came from. It still was nice, nice and nostalgic and familiar and – and it awakened an unethical streak of primal satisfaction in him. John'd continued using those very products all the years he and Sherlock had lived in separate places – out of habit, certainly, but also out of silly nostalgia. They shared the same smell; as if Sherlock were marked territory, as if he were part of _his own herd_ , as if he were _his_ – an absurd, ridiculous and censurable reaction, no doubt. Not something he'd ever admit out loud – Harry'd slap him if she heard him speak in such a way about another person; Mary'd outright _punch_ him. 

However, there _was_ something unique in Sherlock's smell, his own personal aroma – that particular smell right then shot a pang to John's chest: Sherlock's own smell was just as nice, as nostalgic and as familiar as the commercial ones; it shouted friend, it shouted home, it shouted intimacy, like it always had; and now, it also, and clearly, shouted lust.

John’s pulse quickened with an animal thrill. Mr Hyde was back.

***

To say Sherlock hadn't been prepared for John's scalding eyes was an understatement. He wasn't used seeing him like that, like a – a hungry tiger in a cage. John was kind, John was friendly, John was understanding, patient, funny, reliable – not a passionate volcano that made him feel like stepping back. Yet there John'd been, looking at him with such uncensored _want_ , Sherlock's mind had gone blank for some time.

Once in his bedroom though, Sherlock snapped out of it and took the lead. He felt empowered, he felt courageous; eager to touch the forbidden fruit he'd never dared to approach. It had been so long since he touched someone – anyone – even in the chastest way. And now here he was, with John, his John. Sherlock's heart started to beat faster. 

John seemed uncertain; his eyes showed no kind doctor and no hungry tiger, but a man unsure of how to act. Sherlock wasn't sure how to behave either, it still was kind of weird. He wanted to touch John, to be as near him as possible, but he couldn't act as if his friend were a woman, right? And how did he treat women, anyway? As embarrassing as it might be, his first sexual partner had been Janine. Well, not exactly, there was this girl once... but he didn't want to think about that. Besides, he didn't even know exactly how he had seduced them – it was like winking and smiling; he just followed the example of what he saw on films and television. Those women hadn't meant anything to him, so he'd felt quite confident, using his best charming skills. And Irene... well, it'd been _her_ doing all the work, hadn't it? 

But John was different. So, so different. How to proceed? The gay porn he'd been watching wasn't helping much, not yet anyway. So?

And then, his brilliant mind's light bulb switched on. _Redbeard_.

Sherlock raised his hands and placed them on his friend's arms. The gesture was simple and innocuous, but it kindled something in John's eyes – it only lasted few seconds, though. So Sherlock took a step further and started caressing John's arms; slowly up then slowly down, a careful motion he completed by delicately hugging his friend. It wasn't a passionate nor a tender hug; it was cautious, calculated, light; the way you'd try to pet an unfriendly horse or try to feed a wary squirrel. John. It felt so nice to hug him, to be so close to him, even if his arms barely touched the good doctor's clothes. It was still exhilarating to have physical contact with another person, to feel his body heat; he hadn't known he'd had such a desperate need for it – Janine had been nice, but this, John – oh, so pleasant. His friend was warm, pulsing like an enormous heart; he smelled exactly as he remembered: their anti-dandruff shampoo, their shaving foam, their detergent, their cheapest Tesco hand soap, and especially, that very same smell of _John_. His kind, his good humoured, his reliable, his loyal companion. Reunited once again to take a step further together – Sherlock felt a burst of intense feelings he wasn't quite certain he could define. He wouldn't waste any more time, he'd shine, he'd charm John into the best sex they'd ever had. Not that he was very experienced, but never mind. Inexperienced didn't mean clueless, especially if one's partner happened to have the same kind of anatomy as one's own.

***

At first, John hadn’t known how to react. Sherlock initiating a hug? But later he’d reciprocated in a similar fashion, almost without truly touching his friend. They were testing the waters after all, deciding whether it was wise to dive in or not. Sherlock bowed his head and whispered to John's ear. 

“If you knew how many times I've fantasised about this moment, you'd be shocked.” 

“If you knew what _I've_ fantasised about,” replied John darkly, “ _you'd_ be shocked.” 

Sherlock chuckled, and the sound vibrated in like a pleasant rumble that took John's breath away. Before he knew it, Sherlock had burrowed his face into his neck and had chastely kissed it. Goose pimples rose on John's skin and, instinctively, he moved to place his lips under Sherlock's ear and gave him a wet kiss. Sherlock shivered, moaned quietly and closed his eyes - enough to make John harden. 

_Jesus, Sherlock. Do you even know what you're doing to me?_

Emboldened by lust, John moved his hands down from his best friend's upper back to his hips in a tender caress. His mind was full of Sherlock. Sherlock... he was so strong and so weak at the same time. As if he had a heart of raw diamond sometimes and of fine glass at others. A paradox, a contradiction, an oxymoron. So observant and so oblivious. So charming and so infuriating. So smart and so stupid, so hot and so cold, so public school and so unconventional. A bad boy and a good man.

And an impatient one.

Sherlock took John's face between his slender hands and kissed him chastely on the lips. It felt like an electric shock, a velvety caress. Sherlock was a bit clumsy and inexperienced, but that didn't put John off – quite the contrary, in fact; he hugged his lover tightly and gave him a wet kiss, tongue on tongue. 

Sherlock pressed his hardened erection against John's thigh and hummed in pleasure. 

“Let me play out your fantasies, John,” he said with a hoarse voice, his pounding heart knocking at John’s chest. He sounded like he meant every word.

John, for the first time in that evening, blushed a deep crimson – he felt both embarrassed and tempted by the offer. Dr Watson, however, overpowered Mr Hyde.

“It's our first time together, Sherlock,” he answered, “Let's take it easy. Let's be mindful. After all,” he added with a short, nervous laugh, “no need to try to impersonate porn stars.” 

Sherlock didn't answer, but started unbuttoning John's shirt at a deliberately slow pace, his eyes burning holes in the fabric. When he finished with that task, he took John's shirt off and placed both palms on his chest. John closed his eyes and inhaled; when he opened them again, Sherlock was on his knees and unfastening his belt. His intentions couldn't be clearer.

“Sherlock...” said John, hesitantly. He was panicking a bit. “No need to go straight to this; let's play some more, let me touch you. Let's go to bed and get comfortable.” 

Sherlock had already unfastened John’s belt and was unzipping his jeans, his meticulous and slender fingers working in what his attention seemed absorbed. Suddenly, two icy eyes pierced John's. 

“Don't tell me you don't want this,” he said in such a husky voice John felt the need to swallow, “because I can feel your lieutenant standing at attention.” 

He then tugged at John's jeans until they pooled around his ankles; John's boxers were pulled tight over his erection. Sherlock brushed it with his delicate hands and John hold his breath. 

“I know I'm an insufferable, irreverent asshole, always blurting out things I shouldn't say.” In spite of those words, Sherlock's tone was flirty, not acid. “I bet one of your fantasies includes shutting my inappropriate mouth up by...” he didn't end the sentence, but he placed a ghost of a smile next to John's clothed cock – once again, the message was quite clear. John blushed again, agitated by his friend's too good a guess.

“Fantasies aren't reality, Sherlock,” he uncomfortably answered back, but didn't stop Sherlock from stripping him of his boxers. “Let's do this properly.”

But despite Dr Watson’s efforts, he was being overpowered by Mr Hyde.

***

“Let’s do this properly.”

Sherlock answered with a strained smile, half-playful, half-irritated. “I _am_ doing it properly, John.” 

This long awaited contact was so gratifying he felt like kissing every inch of John's skin. God, he was so aroused he wanted to push his friend onto the bed and rub against him like an animal. But he wouldn't, obviously. Before John could reply, Sherlock languidly licked the head of his penis. He felt the shiver that went through John's body, and smiled with self-satisfaction. He then slowly and sensually licked all the length of his friend's shaft, lubricating it with his saliva, carefully, methodically, erotically. It was an odd and new experience, licking another man's penis. Sherlock was actually surprised by how much it turned him on.

_Here be dragons, indeed._

***

John was in pure bliss. Dirty, sexy, disturbing pleasure that travelled from his cock to the rest of his body like waves on a shore. He couldn't help uttering a strangled gasp. His hands had travelled to Sherlock's black curls without his permission, and instead of pushing him away, they were holding the man in place. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he _had_ fantasised such a scene – with 'shutting Sherlock's mouth up'. Slowly, tantalisingly, his lover opened his mouth and surrounded John's erection with his hot wetness. Oh, God. Oh, God. There he was, his piercing blue eyes clouded with lust and his too smart a mouth sucking John's – oh dear. John felt ashamed of his fantasies, of enjoying the idea of thrusting his cock as far into Sherlock's mouth as he could; he knew they were twisted – yet he couldn't help getting ridiculously aroused by them; he imagined thrusting right into Sherlock's throat, almost making him choke; as if he were making a point, demonstrating who was in command, _owning_ him, _subordinating_ him – _shut your impertinent mouth and do your job_ – _that's it, take it all, swallow it all_ – _I'll pet your hair meanwhile, good boy_ – _I'll make a good boy out of you_ – _I'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't be able to do anything until I finish_ – _yeah, just like that, good boy_ – _take it all_ – _you'll have to swallow all of my seed, you'll choke on it, that'll teach you to shut the fuck up_ – _so good, so good_ – _so good_...

***

Sherlock was doing his best to please John. He was enjoying giving him a blowjob, he enjoyed knowing _he_ was enjoying it – he enjoyed the eroticism of faking powerlessness – but it _was_ becoming uncomfortable. John had accelerated his thrusting pace, had become rougher, more demanding – the idea was arousing, but the physical consequence of it was that Sherlock's facial muscles had started to hurt a bit, unable as he was to take a break. He did his best not to interrupt John, though – not to spoil his pleasure now that he seemed to be so close – he'd make him reach the highest peak ever, he swore.

***

And reach the peak John did. He thrust hard and fast into Sherlock's mouth, in a rough and domineering way – just like in his fantasies, until pleasure exploded in powerful shock waves that made him groan. Pure, intense bliss poured out and collapsed his nervous system. He wasn't usually so carried away, but – but this was one of his most secret, most shameful fantasies come true. _Kind of_ come true... and thank God.

Descent to reality, however, was somewhat embarrassing. He sat down on the bed while Sherlock stood up with a smug smile and located the roll of toilet paper he had left on his night table. John felt ashamed. He didn't regret doing it – _so good_ – but he firmly believed he should. Dr Watson glared at Mr Hyde, Mr Hyde gave Dr Watson the finger, and John sighed.

There was but one thing John could do to redeem himself. 

“Your turn,” he said to Sherlock, who had finished cleaning up. He had his trousers on, which made John's cheeks grow hot – hadn't even properly undressed him. Damn Mr Hyde. Sherlock's smug smile was still in place.

“I'd like your feedback first, John,” he said with a smirk, “after all, it was the first time I performed a fellatio. Did I do it _properly_ , doctor?”

John felt his cheeks burn again, and Sherlock chuckled. John didn't dare utter a word, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind: he probably had had all the answer he wanted. John silently freed himself of his jeans and his boxers, his eyes unable to look at his best friend. Until...

“John.” Sherlock's voice had become serious. “Are you all right?”

John snapped his eyes up and found his very dear friend's piercing blue ones, full of concern and – and – love? He felt a knot in his throat, swallowed and forced a smile, as genuine a smile as he could. 

“Don't mind me. It's your turn!” he said with false vitality, and stood up.

“John, what's going on? Wasn't it good?”

 _Oh, dear, no_. Not that question, not that very same face he made when asking if he'd made a social blunder. The knot in John's throat tightened.

“No, Sherlock, it was – ” he cleared his throat “ – it was _very_ good, I've...” _I've enjoyed myself. Too much._ “I – thank you, Sherlock.”

And just like that, with two magic words, Sherlock was smiling once again. Like a child. 

_Christ. John Hamish Watson, he's not a child. Stop that._

“My turn?” Sherlock ventured, with a timid half smile. John smiled back and batted his eyelids fast to prevent tears from forming. 

“Your turn,” he confirmed. He approached Sherlock, and took a moment to contemplate him. He was bony, pale, skinny. His body made John think of delicate porcelain statues – absurd. He knew how strong and fast his friend could be, how much his body could endure. Sherlock was resilient, he wouldn't shatter just like that.

_Would he?_

Maybe, if John touched the right places the right way... he might shatter. In pleasure. _Yes, good idea._

John sat down again and smiled calmly to Sherlock. “Come here,” he whispered, and Sherlock obeyed. John could tell he was trying to act confident, just like he had before. 

_Oh, but you're nervous, Sherlock, I can tell. I bet Irene was the first person to touch you in any way._ If _she did. You probably had no action at all after Irene – until Janine. You must crave human contact, right? Come here. Come, my friend._

The change was incredible. Sherlock had become quieter and shier, as if he didn't know what to do any more. It was endearing. John strongly suspected Sherlock had been... 'looking up' on the Internet. It made sense; his words, the way he went almost directly for his cock... At first, Sherlock's hug had been all giving, but it rapidly turned into something more demanding.

 _Jesus. Did you enact porn_ clichés _for Irene and Janine as well, Sherlock? So candid. So ridiculous. So endearing. God, Sherlock. I overcame that period on my teens. You're over thirty._

John felt his heart swelling with tenderness at first, and then his cheeks became hot once again. He could patronise Sherlock as much as he wanted, but he'd imagined the dirtiest porn _clichés_ ever while Sherlock was giving him a blowjob. He shouldn't speak so high and mighty, not even just inside his mind.

Sherlock stood exactly in front of John's knees, still and awkward. Like a virgin.

 _Like a virgin… John, stop that. It's ridiculous to get aroused by that idea. That_ false _idea, mind you. Mary would punch you if she heard you. And Harry'd hold you to help her. God. Remember Janine. Remember that morning. He didn't act like a virgin then, did he? No, certainly not. Most certainly not._

 _Shit. I'm blushing again. I'm blushing and he's waiting._

“Sit next to me, Sherlock.” 

_Oh? He obeys without a word. That's new. That's nice. But, come on, John._ It _won't harden again. You're way too exhausted, friend. You know you are._

_Sherlock seems uncomfortable. Why is that? Nervous? He's staring at his knees as if his eyes were anchored to them. His hands are twitching. His shoulders are tensed. Jesus. He's in his defensive stance._

So John decided to start cautiously. He didn't know the reason behind the change in mood, but he'd make him comfortable again. He could and he would.

He placed his right hand on his friend's shirtless shoulder blade and pressed gently.

“Sherlock,” he said in a soothing tone, a tone he'd learnt to use with his patients. “Do you want me to go slowly?”

_Silence. Odd._

_More silence._  
_Worrying._

“Sherlock?” he said cautiously. “Do you want this?”

His friend didn't reply, didn't even look at him, but nodded with his head once. Tense. He was tense. It was both worrying and endearing. 

Instead of saying anything else, John chose to caress his partner's back. Up, down, up again; he rubbed it gently, lovingly, and then went further and hugged him with one arm first, then with both arms. Sherlock had closed his eyes. John moved his lips to Sherlock’s left ear and whispered.

“Relax, Sherlock. If this becomes too weird for you, if after all you decide you don't want to... just tell me, and I'll stop.”

His friend blushed furiously. He half-opened his lips, breathed shallowly, and finally croaked: “That's not it, John.” 

“Hmm?” he hummed. John felt Sherlock’s breath quicken in response, and couldn’t help smiling smugly.

“It's just...” Sherlock’s voice betrayed unease.

“You want me to go faster?”

“No. No, it's...” John licked his neck and Sherlock whimpered. “... it's fine.”

John couldn't help smiling in triumph. Of course it was fine. And it'd become better. He promised.

“Lie down, Sherlock,” he instructed with his calm voice. “Get comfortable.”

His friend shot him a strange look. His cheeks were pink, his eyes cried vulnerability. John felt his pulse quickening with tenderness, and he smiled at Sherlock.

 

* * *

Sherlock could feel his breath becoming shallow and his eyes losing the focus he was so proud of.

Jesus. God. John. John. John was nothing like Janine. He wasn't unreliable, he wasn't awkward. He wasn't mechanical, stereotypical. And he wasn't like Irene either – he wasn't dangerous, he wasn't a threat, he wasn't domineering. Not now at least. Not when it mattered.

It was Dr Watson at his gentlest. Soothing, relaxing, warm. Sherlock's face became hot like fire. Oh dear. Did John guess how that affected him? How much he liked that aspect of him? How shaken he was by it? Sherlock felt an overflow of some warm feeling he couldn't name – it was too intense to be just affection, but too gentle to be febrile lust. It burned with low intensity, but constantly, like sleepy magma on top of his stomach. It was like – this was embarrassing – like with _Redbeard_ , but multiplied by a million. He felt relief. He felt like crying and hugging him and burrowing his face into John's slightly hairier chest and letting him stroke his head forever. 

Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes. It was too intense, like looking directly at the sun. Too intense. 

Once more, he had obeyed his good friend and lay on his back. John’d stood up to leave him enough room to do so. He was now hovering over Sherlock, with that relaxed and reliable demeanour of his. Sherlock shot a glance at John's penis. It was flaccid, but somewhat swollen still. That made him remember – 

“Hm, John...”

John stopped, blinked and looked into his eyes. Sherlock averted his gaze. He was uncomfortable again, uncomfortable and ashamed.

“There's...”

Damn. He wouldn't be able to say it, but it was better for him to say it than letting John discover it.

“Hm... there's a problem.”

Shit. John would think it was because of him. He'd think he didn't turn Sherlock on, or that he wasn't doing it properly. It wasn't that. He was aroused, he wanted to be touched by John. But...

“You see...”

He was blushing. Again. He felt like a teenager. It was infuriating. Why did _this_ always happen? Had he some kind of dysfunction or something? Wasn't he a true man? Probably not, seeing how he'd enjoyed sucking John's cock. _No. Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it. Gay men are still men, don't be childish. Stop hurting yourself_ – _what's a 'true man', anyway?_ Oh, dear. It was his worst fear, his worst fear coming true – once again. Again, and again, and again, and again till eternity. _Fuck!_

It was Helen all over again. Helen. He'd worked so hard to forget her name – yet, no; his brilliant mind chose not to do so. He'd barely _known_ her, for God's sake. She was his violin teacher's daughter, they were twenty, it was his first time, he was nervous; no, _terrified_ – and _it_ hadn't stood up. He'd managed to take a girl home _for once_ – and it had backfired in the most embarrassing way possible. Mycroft had deduced what happened right away, fucking _teased_ him no end – and Sherlock never lived it down. Ever. No wonder he'd become asexual; no wonder he'd come to believe what his brother told him, that love... _Christ. Stop it._

And then there was Janine. But he was more prepared for her; after all, he couldn't fail her – John and Mary's happiness was at stake. Irene did teach him a thing or two about seducing people. So, even if _that_ happened with Janine too, she hadn't minded – not as long as he managed to make her come using other methods. And he certainly did. But it'd been unsatisfying for him. Worse, it'd been yet another blow to his male pride. 

Jesus. And John... no woman had ever made him feel like John did – except maybe Irene? But certainly not as much as his best friend did. God. He'd deduced John was the right answer. But he wasn't, apparently. Was he defective? Was this a side effect of smoking? Was it because of the cocaine? _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Shh. Sherlock, stop it.” Sherlock's attention snapped into focus. “I know you're worrying over something, Sherlock. Stop it. Relax.” John took a deep breath and added, “This is your moment to enjoy, to be pleasured.” He then gave a slightly embarrassed, friendly smile. “Let me, Sherlock. I really want to.”

Sherlock's chest warmed again, but he looked down.

“I want this as well, John, don't doubt it,” he quietly said. “But... down there...” Jesus. No, he couldn't put it into words. 

But it wasn't necessary. John looked down and realised what he had tried to say. “Sherlock... you could've told me, you know.” Sherlock must’ve let his doubts cloud his face, because John closed his eyes and sighed. 

“I'm a man as well, you git.”

Sherlock didn't answer. John opened his eyes and shot him an honest look. “It happens to all of us, Sherlock. No need to be ashamed or distressed by it. The more you stress over it, the more you'll panic and it will happen over and over again.”

Sherlock averted his gaze; he felt like a scolded child. John sighed again, approached his lips to his neck and whispered, “It's happened to me too. It happens if you're too nervous or too drunk or drugged or if your body's tired. Sherlock, it's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sherlock was aware he was sulking like a schoolboy, but he had lost enough dignity as it was. He wasn’t going to lose more by playing along. He heard John huffing. 

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“I've told you I'm a man as well.”

“I heard you. Well done, John. You’re becoming better at making accurate deductions.”

“I meant I _understood_ , you dick.”

“Really? You've improved.”

“I'm also your best friend, aren't I?”

“So what?”

John made an exasperated sigh.

“Sherlock. What I'm saying is that _you don't need to impress me_ – I'm not some young pretty girl you've just met, am I? Stop trusting porn and start trusting _me_ , for God's sake!”

At first, Sherlock felt embarrassed and mutinous – but it wasn't long before a smile that became a laugh broke through his façade. _John. Oh, John. You keep me right; always and in all ways. John._

His friend smiled as well. “Now be a good boy and fucking _listen_ to what your doctor says.”

“I thought we'd leave porn alone, John.”

“Shut up and take your trousers off.”

“Hmm. I didn't know you were so bossy in bed. I could get used to it.” Sherlock smiled with glee. “Be gentle with me, doc?”

“Continue speaking like that and I'll spank you.”

“Hmm... would you?”

They both burst into laughter. They had all the night to be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence. 
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


	4. The Knights of the Triangular Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers. Please, be aware.**
> 
>  
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to **sideris** for taking time to beta this fic in spite of being busy with their own fanfiction. Which I recommend reading, they're far better than mine :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ooOoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mary couldn't sleep.

It wasn't because of the baby; she was sleeping soundly. No. It was because... well, because her husband was fucking his best friend like right now, probably? Yeah. And she had consented it.

Oh, damn. Old Anja was coming back – not the thirty-something disillusioned, scared one, but the reckless teenager – the one who smoked, the one who spat on the floor, the one who chose to take a gun and shoot with it.

Mary felt a cool, slimy knot of snakes slithering and fighting the walls of her stomach. She sighed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She tossed the sheets and sat on her side of the now too big and too cold double bed. The night was chilling, and she felt, more than saw, goose pimples forming on her skin.

She needed to smoke, needed it badly. It'd been ages – _decades_ – since she quit smoking, but the old ghost was coming back to haunt her – the need for the burning, relaxing air filling her lungs. Tonight she felt impetuous, nervous, as if a bundle of nerves squeezed her insides between her lungs and her stomach. She felt like getting drunk, like chain-smoking, like taking her gun and practising in the forest – but she mustn't. She mustn't, not while her head and her heart were in a mess.

And what about little Sherly?

Mary sighed and rubbed her closed eyes with her hands. She wasn't the young Anja any more, she was a mother in her forties. But she was going _crazy_ locked up in her flat, damn it! She was _suffocating_ , she needed fresh air!

What the hell. She'd go to a seven-eleven; she'd get cigarettes, beer – nothing stronger than that – and she'd come back there. John wouldn't be home tonight anyway, she was free to do whatever she pleased. She put clothes on, took her coat, her money, her mobile phone and her keys, and went out.

Walking in the freezing night did her good. She pretended to be another shadow in the night, an anonymous shadow gliding towards her hunting place. She loved those moments; loved to feel camouflaged and unnoticeable and ignored and underestimated – that made her feel secure, safe. A black panther in a dark jungle, blended into the shadows, seeing everything and seen by no one. But she knew that was just an illusion. Yes. She had lost her innocence long ago; she wasn't that Anja any more. Or, rather, that Anja had been chained and jailed in the deepest, dampest cell of her heart. Although sometimes she managed to break through – like tonight.

That Anja. Oh, how she'd liked to play that role. To have a long coat and smoke cigarettes and blow the smoke into the air, like a cross-gendered black-and-white Humphrey Bogart. Yes. She'd been excited to be part of the RAF – the _proletariat_ against the _bourgeoisie_ – to be David against Goliath – no damsel in distress, no whore at your disposal, no angel of the house; but a cross between an anonymous superhero, a _femme fatale_ and a Second World War martyr. The tomboy of a Soviet militia, a _guerrillera_ of a Caribbean jungle. Female Robin Hood and her comrades against Capitalism and its evils. So alluring, so glamourous; the eternal aura of Marxist glory and atheistic saintliness. Mary snorted. Working for a Great Cause. Indeed. But then... and now...

She started walking faster.

The bitter truth, a truth she learnt all too soon, was that she was no Humphrey Bogart, no David and no Robin Hood. Young Anja'd been so enamoured with the glamourous self-image she had made of herself... but it hadn't lasted long. No; because soon she'd known what it _truly_ meant to be clandestine, to be persecuted. To have to hide, run, fly, hide again, paranoia; to become the shadows and still be afraid of them, afraid, afraid, always afraid and on the run, afraid of everyone, afraid and away, alone, so alone and suspicious of every pair of eyes that fell upon her – suspicious of every cat and every rat that crossed her path.

Anja's breath came out as puffs of smoke into the cold night. She guessed she had to be thankful for her comrade's support and the nerves Nature had given her – a steady pulse that made her into a deadly marble statue of Athena, Pallas the mighty warrior, Minerva the war goddess. She was thankful she'd never been caught – never been tortured, never been in jail. Never been broken down. Untouched, thanks to paranoia and cautiousness and good damn luck and – and who knows whose mercy. Or lack of interest. Or...

 _Stop it. Stop it. You got your cigarettes_ , verflucht! _Smoke. Smoke – forget. You're Mary now. Mary Watson, a married woman and a mother._

Anja snorted.

_'An angel of the house', huh? But John prefers bad boys in smart coats that smoke with finesse..._

_Shut up._ Halt's Maul!

_Enough. Get a grip on yourself. Look around._

_You're in front of a seven-eleven. More precisely, in front of a tobacco vending machine near the supermarket's doors. You've got a plastic bag with three cans of cheap beer on the floor, next to you. You've got a packet of fags in your left hand and your purse in your right. Good. Keep breathing._

And then, out of the blue, a dreadful fear gripped her.

_The baby._

What if someone broke in their house and harmed her? What if she suffocated? What if she needed her mother, what if she was hungry?

_Bad mother._

Mary rushed home, leaving her beer cans in front of the vending machine.

* * *

Baby Sherlock was peacefully asleep, calm, in a cocoon of warm sheets. She was all right. The baby was all right; oh thank goodness. Mary swore she'd never leave her alone again. Never again.

_Paranoia, huh?_

Mary let herself fall onto her bed and covered her face with her hands.

So tired.

Settling down should have changed everything, shouldn't it?

But it hadn't. It hadn't changed _everything._

So tired. So alone.

That was her life in a nutshell. A blur of both friendly and threatening faces while she rushed forward, always forward. Free fall into the future.

She was forty-four now. She was tired. She was _exhausted._

And then she exploded. In just a second, tears flowed from her eyes, her face became hot and puffed and she twisted it in pain. There was no one to see her, after all. She could cry at her heart's content.

She felt trapped in her own tower.

_Half sick of shadows._

Mary snorted, and then she sighed.

She was fed up with being strong. She was fed up with pretending she was made of marble and then pretending she wasn’t. She was fed up with putting masks on and playing roles - she felt like a layer under a layer under a layer of pretence that had lost track of the true, inner core. Was there even a true, inner core any more?

_Verdammt._

Who was she? Did she even remember who she was?

She was Mary Watson.

No.

Who was she?

She was Anja.

Anja Gertrud Richter Achenbach.

No.

Who was she _now_?

She was Mary Watson, _née_ Morstan, John Hamish Watson's wife.

Truly?

No.

She was Otto Richter's and Frieda Achenbach's daughter, born in West Germany in 1971. A member of the _Rottee Armee Fraktion_ until it disbanded. _Meine Muttersprache ist Deutsch._

But now she lived in English. She _loved_ , she _laughed_ , she _thought_ in English. _Good grief!_

Jesus.

She even _cursed_ in English now.

Who the hell was she?

Mary moaned. Were her masks part of her already? Was Mary the evolution of Anja? The next step? Or just her last performed role, a character that had finally succeeded in taking the actress over?

No. No, she was Anja. No, she was Mary now. But Mary was Anja. But not really. She was Anja's older self. Yes. Yes, that was it.

Really?

Or was Mary a defeated Anja?

So confused. So tired. So very, very tired.

Why did she propose an _arrangement_? Why had it felt like a good idea and then a bad one and then a good one and then a bad one and -

Who was she? What did she want? How did she feel?

_Good grief. John._

_John. John, come home. Please._

Sherlock continued to sleep peacefully, calmly, in her cocoon of warm sheets.

***

John and his best friend had dozed off for half an hour or so. Sherlock's mind had been too blocked, or too tired, and his penis had refused to respond. John had given up any hope at pleasuring his friend that way, judging it best not to nag. But then Sherlock had awoken, and they had cuddled, and they had caressed each other; and John couldn't help feeling a pleasant pain piercing his heart, couldn't not kiss him, not lick him, not respond to Sherlock's needy greed to be touched. Sherlock seemed to be drunk on sensory _stimuli_ – he was so starved for physical affection, it wasn't surprising.

So John had decided to please Sherlock as best as he could. He'd never been with a man before, but he _had_ been with quite a lot of women. And he was a man himself; so he didn't feel at a loss – the point wasn't doing fancy gay positions, but to give his friend – his love – a blissful physical release. And he certainly could do that. So he caressed and stroked carefully, sometimes more gently, sometimes more roughly – keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, on Sherlock's sweaty chest, on Sherlock's closed eyes, on Sherlock's frown of pleasure and his half-opened mouth. He was sexy, sexy like hell. _Christ._

John felt so grateful for having the chance to lie with him.

***

Sherlock had panicked at first. All those intense, burning feelings and sensations had threatened to overwhelm his mind. But John had coaxed him into relaxing, into letting go, into accepting the loss of control. Sherlock _knew_ he’d have been unable to yield so completely if his partner had been someone else - his experience with Janine seemed now a grotesque parody of love-making.

He was laying on his back, and John was next to him, supporting himself on his left elbow while his right pleasured him. Sherlock had a hand gripping the sheets and the other clinging to his friend's shoulder; he was submerged in a lake of bliss and – and – _feelings. Oh, John._ John, John and his gentle but firm strokes wrapping his – _fuck_ – it was so different when it was someone else doing it for you – oh, God. And John knew what to do. He knew. He knew how it felt, he could relate to it. He'd whisper Sherlock soothing nonsense now and then, his hot breath caressing Sherlock's ear and his gentle words making Sherlock's heart beat harder – _shh, no need to hurry – relax, leave it to me – shh..._

And like that, pleasure bathed Sherlock's senses and built up in no time – and then, it happened. An intense bliss he'd never felt without drugs, a pleasure that melted his body and his heart and made him groan in his release. A bliss that didn’t make him feel like shit afterwards. A true, wholesome, healthy bliss.

When they finally lay to rest under his stained sheets, Sherlock spooned John in a contented doze. This was Heaven, he said to himself. Definitely Heaven, and Mycroft was so fucking wrong about life.

 

* * *

The first thing John realised when he woke up was that he'd been spooned by Sherlock, that his friend had morning wood – so did he – , and that all that pleased him. It was pleasant to lie with his best friend glued to him in a warm love nest. It was usually him spooning Mary, the one feeling a body against his stomach – now he could feel a bigger body against his back. It was like a gentle, protective shell of warm and sexy flesh. Comfortable and arousing.

The second thing he realised, as soon as he looked at his mobile phone, was that he was late for work.

_Shit._

He should have foreseen this.

 _Shit._ This was frustrating. It was so pleasant, so good to just lie in bed with no care at all, with Sherlock hugging him in his sleep, both their bodies and the sheets smelling of sweat and semen and sleepy contentment – _fuck._

But he had to go. He had to clean up – at least his _body_ – and go to work. He had to. So he started moving very slowly, to try to disentangle himself from Sherlock's grip. After some instants, his best friend stirred.

“Mm... John?”

Jesus. He was so endearing when he was half asleep.

“I've got to go to work, Sherlock...”

“Don't go.” He said it as if that were the most obvious and elementary thing to do.

John ignored him and stood up. “I can't just not go.”

Sherlock cracked an eye open. “Call, then. Tell them you're ill or something.”

John smiled with amusement. “And then what? I sign my own sick leave? I work with medics, Sherlock.”

“Bunch of idiots.”

“All the more reason not to let them alone.”

“I'm an idiot too.”

“Nice try.”

Was Sherlock pouting? Oh dear. He was, like a stubborn kid whose parents weren't giving him what he wanted. So sweet. So annoying. John bent over him and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on his lips – a kiss that became not so chaste afterwards, and then hotter, wetter; and then –

“Sherlock, I really have to go.”

Sherlock huffed, closed his eyes and groaned, “Fine. Call of duty. Whatever.” He opened an eye, presumably to see whether John was listening to him or not. He was, so Sherlock closed his eye again and added with what John had learnt was fake nonchalance: “Once a soldier, always a soldier, huh?” He looked at John, but John was making a point of ignoring him and busying himself with looking for his clothes. Sherlock chose a more aggressive tactic, and said: “I bet you always did as you were told, never corrected your teachers and did all your pointless homework.”

“And then some,”said John matter-of-factly while fishing for a sock. “You have to, if you want to become a doctor.”

“Good boy,” answered Sherlock mockingly.

“You like that,” John retorted flippantly. “Don't deny it. You enjoy ordering me around.”

“And you enjoy being ordered around.” Sherlock smirked. “Let me guess. Good boy only got one option to give in to his bad boy urges, right? To be wicked because he was told to. Oh! But it was for a Great Cause, wasn't it? For Democracy and Her Majesty the Queen.” 

There. The last straw. Now John was annoyed enough to show he was - he huffed. Sherlock had gone too far. Why did he always have to push the limits? Why didn't he know when to stop? But he _knew_ when to stop. He simply didn't care to. “You shouldn't speak so high and mighty, _bad boy_ ,” he retorted. “You invented a whole job to justify and give in to your 'good boy' urges.”

“Meaning?”

“You like playing the well-loved hero, in spite of your cynicism. It's not just about the intellectual challenge, is it? _Behold the smartest detective fighting against crime for your benefit. Applause expected._ Admit it.”

 _Touché_ , said Sherlock’s face. But then he smiled in amusement, and in... triumph?

Why?

_Oh, shit._

“Fuck you, Sherlock! I'm late enough!”

“You're very much invited to fuck me any time, John.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

He hurried towards the stairs, bath forgotten. He heard Sherlock still laughing when he slammed 221b Baker Street's front door, and couldn't help smiling fondly in spite of himself.

* * *

Sherlock frowned at his opponent from the other side of a chess board. An opponent who was dressed up so neatly it downgraded 221b Baker Street's living room from a jungle to a college dorm.

“I warned you, dear brother.”

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“...”

“...”

“Checkmate. I won.”

“Go fuck yourself, Mycroft.”

“Hm. Less problematic than fornicating with a married man, I should say.”

“And not half as good.”

“I believe you.”

“...”

“...”

“ _Why_ , Mycroft?”

“Because you are my dear little brother.”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“...”

“Well?”

“Security failure.”

“Bullshit. Or, your people are even more incompetent than what I thought.”

“There are no MI5s in Young Offender Institutions, Sherlock.”

“Not even in this case?”

“I fail to see why I should employ my skilled staff to babysit teenagers.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Are you doing something about it?”

“You needn't worry.”

“Don't tell me,” he answered raising both hands, and Mycroft sighed as dramatically as Sherlock had.

“We _are_ , Sherlock. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have actual work to do.”

“Yes, Her Majesty.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, stood up and added, matter-of-factly, “By the way, brother dearest. You do know this matter is none of your business any more.”

“Of course, _brother dearest._ ”

“Sherlock. I'm serious. You know what happened last time you decided to snoop into things you shouldn't.”

“ _Yes_ , Mycroft,” he replied, irked. “And then I corrected half the wrong I did.”

“Is that how you call becoming infatuated with a prostitute?”

Sherlock felt his face turn livid. “Didn't you have actual work to do, _Mikey_? Fuck off.”

Mycroft pierced him with a dangerous, warning look and exited the living room.

* * *

 

It was definitely suspicious.

Sherlock had inspected all the area surrounding Her Majesty's Young Offenders Institution Marshland: there were absolutely no traces of the fugitives on the ground. _Impossible. It's surrounded by an open field of mud, two feet deep, and by nothing else._ It was a known strategy; it slowed down anyone escaping on foot, it made them leave footprints and, better still – it dissuaded prisoners from breaking out in the first place. Besides, the weather that day – the day before – had been rainy in the morning but not in the afternoon. The teenage hackers had been reported missing that very same evening – if they'd just walked off the premises, they _would_ have left footprints. And those footprints should be still there, because it froze that night, and still was cold enough for frost to cover the mud. That only meant one thing: they had left from the only place they wouldn't leave traces – the paved road. _Ergo_ , the front door. _Ergo_ , they _should_ 've been noticed.

But they hadn't been.

“Are you telling me,” Sherlock snarled at the Director of the YOI, “that there is no CCTV recording of yesterday from 19:13 PM to 19:36 PM?”

The Director shifted uncomfortably and shot a nervous look at Sherlock. “No, Inspector Lestrade.”

It was so utterly goldfish of him Sherlock just stared at the man with his face pointedly blank. “Why haven’t you been sacked yet?” he asked, still not quite believing his ears. “Wait: I know. Because you're a civil servant.” Then he rolled his eyes.

_Bingo. That’s annoyed him enough to loosen his tongue._

“It’s the first time this kind of thing happens, sir,” the Director protested. “Our CCTV system is autonomous and the computers that manage it aren’t linked to the Internet.”

 _Oh. Not as goldfish as you appear at a first sight._

“So it was tampered with from the inside,” deduced Sherlock in a murmur, quickly thinking of different possible culprits. “I presume you did talk to the guard on duty?”

“Yes, Inspector Lestrade,” answered the Director stiffly. “He remained in his cabin the whole evening, including the time range that’s missing from the record.”

Sherlock huffed in irritation. “And did he remain _awake_?”

“He doesn’t remember falling asleep, _Inspector_ ,” the Director shot back.

Sherlock snorted. “Obviously he wouldn’t if he fell asleep,” he sneered, and if he weren’t a rational man, he’d say the Director’s white, profuse moustache hair had straightened in outrage. _Stop thinking like John and concentrate._

“We are _professionals_ , Inspector Lestrade,” said the man. “I can testify our guards stay alert while on duty, sir, just as any policeman at Scotland Yard does.” Sherlock concealed his triumphant smirk. _Now we’re getting somewhere._

“If he didn’t notice anything,” added the Director, “it must be because there was nothing to notice. Nothing extraordinary.”

_Nothing extraordinary… routine. Normal schedule. Ordinary activities._

“Do the prisoners have leisure activities during the evening, Mr Pitt?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

 _Is elaborating asking too much, for God’s sake? You are goldfish after all._ “Which ones?”

“Macrame and drawing for the girls, gym and football for the boys. Oh, and on Tuesdays a course on basic computer skills for both sexes. They learn how to use Text Processors and so on.”

Sherlock threw up his arms in exasperation and headed for the door. _No, not a goldfish. An amoeba_. He stopped and turned towards the Director again.

“Are you telling me you let kids that were detained because they’d hacked the UK’s main broadcasting systems _get near a computer_?” he exclaimed.

“They’re old computers, with nothing newer than Microsoft 98,” answered the Director defensively. “They’re not connected to the Internet either, and they had a teacher and a guard watching them the whole two hours.

“Two hours a week with a computer since May,” Sherlock mumbled, bewildered. “Are you all _out of your little minds_?!”

“Inspector Lestrade,” answered the Director, “with all due respect, do _not_ look down on us. We check those computers once a week. We’ve inspected _all_ the computers within this building, for that matter. There’s no trace of hacking whatsoever.”

Sherlock huffed, annoyed, then realisation dawned on him. “In that case, Mr Pitt,” he slowly said, “if we eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” 

The Director raised an eyebrow in a mute, clearly displeased demand for further explanations, but Sherlock ignored him. “Mr Pitt, I understand the uniform of the detainees consists of a green pullover, green trousers and a grey t-shirt?”

Mr Pitt seemed confused. “Yes, Inspector Lestrade.”

Sherlock didn't answer. He was pretty sure by then that the teenagers hadn’t broken out. He reached for his Belstaff and put it on with a flourish. No, they hadn't broken out. They’d been _released_. The previous day, someone who knew the access code to the building’s security system and who wasn’t suspected by the guard on duty had opened the doors and erased a part of the CCTV records. Mr Pitt himself? Another security guard? But who took the kids out?

Not the Director, judging by his car's lack of frost, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles on his expensive, smart outfit and the general mess in his office: six dirty, plastic coffee cups; a prison blanket carelessly thrown over a chair, the box of pills to fight headaches on the desk, the smell of the room itself. Mr Pitt had been in the building since the day before and hadn't gone out, not for long anyway.

Sherlock, lost in thought, barely said goodbye to the Director. He slammed the door in his way out, smiling to himself – he had a feeling the rabbit hole was deeper than he'd first calculated.

The game was on.

 

***

It was 8 P.M. It was dark outside, and the fluorescent tubes were making the walls of the clinic seem ridiculously white. Or so John thought.

He was sitting in front of his desk, self-absorbed, feeling tired and guilty. It'd been a week since that first night at Sherlock's. His handsome, reckless and emotionally cold Sherlock. Or so John had thought.

He had discovered that, in fact, Sherlock wasn't as insensitive as he pretended. In truth, sometimes John felt he was frightfully unaware whether Sherlock was acting or being sincere; sometimes Sherlock said nothing, sometimes he told the truth – and sometimes he lied.

But there were some moments when even the most skilled actor dropped his mask, even if only for a second – and John had seen. He had seen Sherlock bare – _truly_ bare, bare to the core. And he’d seen. He’d seen a desperate loneliness craving affection, any kind of affection, but especially love; craving the burning, lustful and feverish love John had for him and which Sherlock greedily snatched for himself, like a starved child, snatching whatever portion of food he could get. That cunning man disguised his urges quite skilfully most of the time. But sometimes, like in some heated moments of love making, or while enjoying post-coital bliss, or when Sherlock thought John couldn't see him – the make-up wore off and the lonely, starving child appeared.

John huffed and pressed his fingertips against his closed eyes. Good grief.

He opened his eyes and stared at the wooden flatness of his desk. And him? Who was he? Dr Watson? Mr Hyde? A good boy, or a bad boy? He'd always had a very clear idea of who he was – a good boy, of course. Dr John Watson, a doctor. He saved lives.

Yes, he did, but he could end lives as well. He could heal, but he could hurt – and he hadn't hesitated about doing so. Why did he go to Afghanistan? Why did he enrol in the Army? Why did he go to a war far, far away from home?

For Freedom. For Democracy. For Scientific, Liberal Reasoning against unreasonable religious fanaticism.

John almost snorted. Those words sounded so hollow now. Big words, great words that once had had the power to swell his heart with beautiful, ardent, brave feelings. Words that had had sense and purpose, an inherent goodness and righteousness and warmth. Words that described a perfect utopia. Words he once believed were great enough to die for.

Great enough to kill for.

John closed his eyes, weary. He’d been in Afghanistan as a doctor, but what he’d _seen_ , what he’d _lived_ \- what he _knew_ , and ultimately, what he’d been forced to _do_ had spoilt his Trust and his Faith and he could Believe no more.

He’d been so innocent. So utterly, incredibly _naïve_ \- his heart blinded by romantic images of fictional superheroes and historical martyrs and – he should’ve been old enough not to believe in heroes, but alas. He’d always had that life-saver, care-taker tendency – growing up with Harry, how could he not? That was why he’d studied medicine. But deep down in his twenty-something mind, he’d kept a teenager yearning to be some realistic superhero. Yearning to be Sir Lancelot in Shining Armour.

This time, John actually snorted.

And then he’d spent three years in a real war and he’d seen each of those big, beautiful, great words lose their meaning without being replaced. John sighed, lifted his chin and looked at his desk. That wasn’t the worst thing, though. He closed his eyes.

 _You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You_ miss _it._

_You are a doctor who went to a war. You're addicted to a certain kind of lifestyle, John._

He snapped his eyes open.

Good boy giving in to his bad boy urges, huh? John felt suddenly irritated. Who the hell did the Holmes brothers think they were to patronise him? _Cocks._

But it was true. It was the horrifying truth. He missed living each day as if it were the last day of his life. Routine back in the UK had been so bland and meaningless, as pointless and artificially comfortable as the very same words he’d first thought he fought for. He missed the deep camaraderie, the straightforward simplicity, the thrill of the danger and the daily violence; the opportunity to give vent to his anger without holding back. The Great Words had lost their sense of purpose pretty quickly, but John found purpose again in his daily fight against Death and The Others. They became a goal in themselves - a fulfilling, important goal. Yes. Each of his actions in Afghanistan had held ten times more importance and meaning than a day’s work held now in the blissfully oblivious UK.

And then they’d been demobilised, leaving John alone in front of Mr Hyde, who’d been his comrade in need; in front of Mr Hyde and his desperate ambition to exist. And then he’d met Sherlock Holmes, the only morally acceptable way of letting Mr Hyde live. The only way not to become a criminal or implode out of forced nothingness. The only way not to live a meaningless existence.

Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes and his ability to make John's heart pound fast with thrill and excitement and - why deny it now? – sexual desire. Sherlock Holmes and his enticing magic and his knack for making John’s cynical self Believe once again, Believe in superheroes and romance. Sherlock Holmes and his parallel, wonderfully thrilling world of real fantasy. In less than twenty-four hours after meeting John, Sherlock had given life back Meaning and Purpose.

_God._

John rubbed his face with his hands. He was so _twisted._

That first night, with the cabbie. He could've shot between them – not directly to the cabbie's head. Damn, he was a good shooter; he could've spared the taxi driver and just have frightened them so as to make them forget the pills. He told himself then that the cabbie could've hurt Sherlock if left alive – but he could've waited. Waited and seen. Now he’d never know for certain. Did he murder him because he'd been worried and nervous?

No. He _hadn't_ been nervous. He'd discovered while in Afghanistan that he had a certain capacity to stay calm like steel in moments of great danger. He felt a rush of cold adrenaline that made his mind focus and forget every unnecessary detail around him, a high sense of concentration and power and _calm_. He'd never admitted it to Sherlock, not even to himself, but he understood Sherlock more than what people thought he did, probably including Sherlock himself. His friend sought those moments of tense calm, of focused _high_. He sought them, he was addicted to them – and if he couldn't get them, well – _cocaine_. Similar effects.

 _It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it, mate? You never indulged in cocaine, not even in Afghanistan. You're not as addicted to that rush as Sherlock is. But it haunts you. Mr Hyde does. Mr Hyde and his fascination with violence and danger and_ power – _unethical, unfair,_ evil _pleasure of holding destructive power over other people. You enjoy that, feel it each time you take your gun in your hands. The power to heal and to hurt at wish. The power to kill and save a life, at wish._

God's power. That was it.

John tapped his desk with his fingers, disturbed by his thoughts. _For Heaven's sake_. He was a humble human being, equal to the rest of the human beings. Full stop.

Yes, he was. Dr Watson knew he was. But Mr Hyde wasn't satisfied with it.

Oh, no, he wasn't. John buried his Mr Hyde side under layers and layers of a kind, understanding and patient Dr Watson – human, humanist and humanitarian. _Yeah, right_. Mr Hyde still lurked under that and pushed him to run around the streets of London after what the law called criminals, and made him feel turned on by fantasising about raping his best friend's mouth.

Disgusting. Fucking _twisted._

But then Dr Watson would take over, and would kiss Sherlock tenderly, and would please him the best way he could, and would _love_ him and would _make love_ to him. And then he'd remember that those people they stalked and hit and shot were _criminals_ indeed. And he'd sleep soundly.

Until doubts crept over him again, doubts and confusion and guilt and a frightening hollowness lurking in a dark corner of his mind.

* * *

Sherlock paced across the living room, thinking.

One week since those kids escaped the YOI.

Six days since he discovered a small resting area a mile away with van tyre marks and footprints frozen in the mud. The tyre marks came from and returned to the main, paved road. There was the tiniest piece of a green pullover in a bush – one of the runaways had gone behind the brambles. Probably to urinate.

So they had used a van to escape. How could a van have entered and exited a YOI unnoticed? Either a) it was a van the staff was used to see, like the catering service's van or b) it was a van the guards were told to let in and out.

The problem was, Sherlock couldn't go back and impersonate Lestrade any more – he'd been discovered that very afternoon by Scotland Yard. Sherlock smirked and caressed his violin lightly, inspecting it for imperfections, then put it back on his living room's table. Mycroft's infuriated phone call had been priceless.

He'd looked for the enterprises that worked for the YOI, tricked them into telling him their working schedules, and surprise, surprise – none of them had had any business with HMYOI Marshland that day. Sherlock was after a ghost van, apparently. 

Sherlock sighed, frowned and threw himself to the sofa. The case was off limits for him – he couldn't return and interrogate the staff that were on duty that day. He couldn't sneak up as part of the staff either; the police had given them his description – he'd be immediately found out.

He'd meet a dead end. _Thank you, Scotland Yard._

But that very reticence to let him 'snoop' into the YOI confirmed an unsettling thing – they didn't want him near the kids. Why? Rivalry? Nah. There always had been rivalry and they always ended up calling him when they felt lost.

_No way._

_Mycroft?_

_But of course._

Sherlock growled in frustration. One week since the prison escape. One morning since he'd met the dead end and one second since he'd realised he'd lost the game.

He'd lost the game, and if it was true Mycroft had something to do with it – Sherlock was pretty certain by now he _had_ – all he could do now was sulk and stagnate. _Alone_.

One week since that too suspicious prison break. Sherlock sighed, stood up brusquely and picked up the violin once more.

Two weeks since he'd been allowed to touch John.

Two weeks since John had handed in his resignation at the hospital, although he wouldn't be able to leave his work and join him until next week. Sherlock frowned.

Now his bed felt cold every time he lay on it.

He huffed; since when did he notice his bed was cold? But no. It wasn't cold. It just felt cold because John wasn't with him.

Oh. That was it. He was lonely without John. He was _bored._ How could he sneak into YOI Marshland? He couldn't. He'd already checked all the possibilities. _Mycroft_ wouldn't let him. Why? Obvious. Because he was his _big brother._

God, he was _lonely_. It was _dull_ without John at home.

…

_Hmf._

So complicated. Sentiment. He'd wanted to get involved and now look.

God. He wanted _more_ of John. Was that selfish? Did Mary feel like this? 

Sherlock played a short string of impetuous chords on his violin, then flourished the bow against the air and let the hand that gripped it fall lifeless.

Exhibit A: he wasn’t satisfied with this situation of 'sharing' John. Exhibit B: Mary was in his same situation. _Ergo_? Mary wasn’t satisfied with the situation either. Was she?

Additional unknown variable: John.

God, it was too much. Sherlock put the violin on the table and frowned. Too much! _Too much unknown factors!_

_Christ! Get a grip on yourself! Be inductive! Be empirical!_

Sherlock took a deep breath, joined his palms and put them under his chin.

He needed more data. He needed _evidence._

...

_But of course._

He needed to talk to Mary.

* * *

Anja felt very tempted not to pick up her mobile.

It was vibrating on the kitchen table. It was insistent, thunderous, demanding. It read “Sherlock” on the screen.

 _Fuck off_ , she thought. _Fuck off, I don't want to speak to you. I can't speak to you._

She finally did answer the call though. Sherlock's smooth baritone spoke with unusual quietness.

“Mary. We have to talk.”

 _Anja. Anja, not Mary. And I thought talking was an annoying woman thing?_ But she said none of this.

He added, “Let's meet at Jerry's Café. Do you know where it is?”

When Anja answered, her voice croaked. “I know. I've never been inside. Why should I meet you?” Oops. That came out more aggressive than intended. Sherlock sighed lightly, and Mary felt bad.

“Mary. I want us to work.”

“ _Us?_ ” Her voice dripped acid. “Which _us?_ ”

“That's precisely the point.”

He fell silent; Anja waited.

“In two hours?” Sherlock finally proposed.

“...”

“ _Please._ ”

“All right.” Her voice sounded weird. She cut the call. What the hell?

Mary burst out crying and hunched in on herself.

* * *

It was a cold October morning; windy and rainy. A good day to stay inside. Anja, however, was outside, walking towards Jerry's Café, her frozen hands gripping her umbrella and fighting the weather. But what chilled her insides was the meeting she'd be having with Sherlock. That was why she had asked a good friend of hers to come home and take care of little Sherly. Anja – or rather, Mary – wanted to spare the baby what might come up in that encounter.

Damn that man.

There he was, waiting for her at the café's door, under a black umbrella and with his dark coat, his cigarette and his posh clothes.

_Verdammt ihn._

He was _handsome_. And much younger. _Boyish_. Fresh. Not bittered by fatigue and disillusionment and constant defeat.

Well, she wasn't an embittered hag. Or rather, Mary wasn't - even if Anja was.

Halt's Maul, _Anja Gertrud. You're not bitter and you're not a hag. Come on. You're a sensible adult. Act like one._

She lifted her chin and strode towards Sherlock.

***

Sherlock observed Mary approaching him. Her walk was tense and uptight. No baby. Black trousers, dark grey coat. Smarter clothes than those she usually wore, clean and ironed. To intimidate? Maybe. No necklace, no earrings, no ring except her wedding ring. Aggressive stance. Aggressive stride. No high-heels, black shoes. Everything spotless. Dressed for battle. When she finally reached him, she greeted him with a cold “Hello” and didn't add anything else.

He’d wanted evidence. Well, there it was. Mary clearly was unhappy, or maybe just unhappy _at him._ Anderson himself would have been able to notice that much. But no. Anderson would've noticed it right away, without having to read clues on her clothes.

He wasn't sure if it'd work. But it had helped him before, with John. So he'd use it. The 'Redbeard' card.

_John. Redbeard. John. Redbeard._

He slowly closed the distance between him and Mary and hugged her cautiously. He felt the mood changing instantly. He felt it in the air. _Jesus._ He'd improved his mood-observing skills. Had he truly been so blind before? He guessed he had been. Pity. It was a useful tool.

Mary relaxed visibly, though not wholly. She hugged him back, lightly – cautiously? She was still serious, but she had a softer expression when they separated.

God. This was going to be difficult.

***

Anja had been thrown off-balance by Sherlock's hug. “Hello, Mary,” he said. Anja swallowed and Sherlock quietly added, “Cup of tea? Coffee?”

“Hot chocolate for me,” she answered. It _was_ cold, after all. And she'd felt a sudden craving for sugar. Sherlock gave a small and timid smile and turned towards the door. God, it was impossible to stay mad at him. Fuck him.

The first thing that caught Anja's attention when they walked inside was the sharp contrast the coffee shop made with the street – the place was warm and cosy. All shades of gentle browns decorated the homely café and its comfy chairs; wooden tables and plants and carpets lulling one into sitting down. A characteristic sweet smell pervaded the air; something between coffee and milk and cream and chocolate and recently baked bread and cakes. She liked it, and she wasn't sure whether the smell would help her or not. Maybe it would. Maybe it'd comfort her and help her put on her strongest Athena mask. Or maybe it wouldn't, and it'd weaken her and she'd end up crying like a schoolgirl. The speakers played soft music in Span– no, Portuguese. _Bossa nova?_ Maybe. She was no expert in music.

Sherlock led them to a discreet and relatively private part of the café. The waitress didn't take long to come to them and take their orders. She had a soft, amiable smile; a soothing manner and a pleasant accent – Anja's gaze kept going back to her. Indeed, that waitress was as sweet and brown as the hot chocolate she'd brought her. She made Anja think of relaxing naps on warm days, of lazy white clouds crossing blue skies, of exotic aromas and sweet fruits. Was hers a mask too? Probably. That so very feminine woman probably took advantage of her free time to frown and express her annoyance any time she felt annoyed – something she couldn't do at work. But, inside Jerry's Café, the charm worked and the performance felt real and her character was perfectly played. Anja felt Mary taking over. That Sherlock. He'd chosen this place on purpose, she was certain. Not quite that oblivious of the importance of mood, was he?

“So,” she said, a sudden chill squeezing her insides and her gaze fixed on her chocolate, “what did you want to talk about?”

Sherlock smiled tightly. “John,” he simply said. “And this little experiment of ours”.

Mary clutched her cup and remained silent. Sherlock tapped the table lightly with his slender fingers and pursed a corner of his mouth for a second. “This isn't working.”

Anja's breathing accelerated. “Get to the point.” Shit. Too aggressive, once again. Her chocolate was burning her palms.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, fixed his gaze to his cup of tea, seemed to hesitate for a moment and then said: “It’s a simple question of geometry, really. Our triangle has unequal sides.”

Never mind the tense atmosphere, or maybe because of it: Anja burst out laughing. _What the hell?_ “Did you call me to give me some weird master class in primary school geometry, Sherlock?”

Sherlock seemed to be a bit offended, but didn’t dwell on it. He gravely replied, “John taught me not to underestimate primary school knowledge.”

Anja sobered. She looked up and fixed her eyes on Sherlock's blue ones. “It's a metaphor, then.” She was softer, more civilised. 

Sherlock answered with a mechanical smile. “Yes, it is,” he said. “Despite my disapproving of poetic writing and pointless literary devices, I admit sometimes metaphors do help to describe reality with accuracy and economy of words. In such cases, even I indulge in them.”

Mary suppressed a smirk. _Sherlock Holmes at his most 'public school', huh?_ Was he nervous? Maybe he was. Maybe he was nervous, maybe he really _didn't_ want to make an enemy out of her, and relied on his most correct language to prevent offending her, oblivious that that made him seem pedantic. She felt a tale-telling knot in her throat, and her eyes getting hot.

Oh, shit. That song. That song was putting her in a melancholic mood – quick, look at somewhere else than his face. The window. No, not the window, damn; it's raining outside, it suits the melody –

“Mary. _Anja._ ”

She didn't move her gaze. Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped the bomb. “I think we should try to be together. The three of us. I mean, the four of us.”

Mary turned her face so quickly she almost hurt her neck. “What?”

Sherlock looked a bit embarrassed. “Come and live at 221b Baker Street. John, you and the baby. Come and live with me.” Mary realised she had her mouth open and shut it. Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands and added, “I feel bored without John around. And I deduce you must feel that way too. Let's live together.”

Slowly, the information sank into Mary. She was completely taken aback. Living together. Living together. Sherlock actually wanted her company too, not just John's. Or at least he preferred her company to being alone. It was more than most people could say about their relationship with him. However...

“Wouldn't living under the same roof worsen feelings of jealousy?”

It was Sherlock's turn to look taken aback. They remained in silence for some minutes.

“It might,” he finally said. “Or it could actually work the other way around.”

Mary lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “I...” He stopped, then tried again. “I know it's difficult to force yourself to have feelings you don't have; to force yourself to be attracted to someone... but... I think we should try to... we could... share some kind of intimacy, you and me. At least a friendly one. And the three of us together too. At least sometimes. I mean, if it doesn't work, we don't have to force ourselves, but – ”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait, this was too weird, this was creeping her out. What did she just hear? Did this man know no boundaries, no limits? Had he lived in a cave all his life? Mary didn't know whether she should laugh, be scandalised or take it seriously.

“Are you proposing we do threesomes, Sherlock?” What kind of weird porn film did he think he was in? Or did he think human relationships worked as equations, as geometrical problems – as crime scenes, maybe? How could he be so naïve? How could he be so certain? Mary felt her cheeks getting hot. But what if he was right? Jesus Christ. He was giving her a hope she didn’t want to feel.

_Things aren’t so easy, you see. No, you don’t. Of course you don’t see it. You find a problem and think about a right solution. You’re destroyed because of drugs? You create a whole new job to channel your prodigious mind. Your relationship with John isn’t satisfying enough because you’ve got to share him with me? You ask us all to come live with you. Of course things are easy for you._

Anja felt the knot in her throat tightening. She’d been like that once. She’d wanted everything too, once. _Keiner oder alle. Alles oder nichts._ She'd thought it was natural and obvious. She’d thought she was going to change the world.

Insead, the world had changed _her._ She felt her eyes getting hot. Her bright hope, confidence and courage had burst into a million little pieces that twinkled with insecurity in a dark, cold night of infinite mistrust; dim stars that now could only flare hot-white with fury and fear.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I'm proposing a _ménage à trois_ ,” he said. “As I've said before, if our relationship were a triangle, it wouldn't be an equilateral one. John benefits from both of us but we only benefit from _him_. It's unequal. A simple geometrical problem, really; once you think about it.” He lost a bit of his self-confident stance. “I love John,” he said, as if those words tasted odd, “but I don't want to feel as if we were rivals.” His lower lip quivered very faintly. “It's pointless. You're a great woman, I'd much rather be friends with you. I like you, in fact.”

Gott! _Dammit. Sherlock. Oh, come on. Seriously. I thought you had no clue about feelings, yours or anyone else's_ – Mein Gott. _I can't – I can't stop my tears from falling, I can't, I can't even stop my nose running. Fuck. Don't talk like that. Don't. You seem so genuine. You make it seem so simple. So easy. But it isn't. God, I wish it was. But it isn't. Is it? Jesus; if my heart continues beating this hard I might have a heart attack. Christ. You live in a parallel world, Sherlock, don't you? Oh dear. Yes, you do. You do live in a parallel world. I'm glad you do._

“Mary...” Sherlock sounded worried. “I – look, if this is too awkward –”

She smiled and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.

“No, Sherlock – I mean yes, but no.”

“What?”

Sherlock's puzzled face was so comic it made Mary laugh despite her tears. “I mean it's okay. I mean it _is_ awkward, but it's okay. I accept. But – ” A doubt clouded her puffed and red face. “I don't know if John... _he_ might feel – ”

“ – uncomfortable?”

“ ... a bit jealous?”

Now he seemed really confused. “Wha – Why?”

“Because... well...” Mary glanced at Sherlock, feeling insecure. “He might believe that you and me... since the beginning...” Sherlock seemed as puzzled as before, so she simplified it. “He might feel excluded.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, raising both eyebrows, “We felt and still feel excluded a great deal too, don't we?”

Mary smiled weakly. _You don’t get it, do you?_ But he had a point. “... true,” she finally whispered. “Even so...”

“Let's speak to him,” Sherlock said. “Let's talk. The three of us. This evening, at home. At Baker Street.”

Mary knew her eyes must still be all red and puffed when she nodded. She looked quietly at Sherlock while he averted his gaze towards the window – towards the grey, rainy weather and the pedestrians that hurried towards their mysterious destinations. They remained in thoughtful silence, sipping from their respective cups. Mary blessed the cosy coffee shop, which whispered to them in mellow Portuguese and sheltered them from the unpleasantness outside.

_…Encontrei em você a razão de viver e de amar em paz, e não sofrer mais, nunca mais..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence. 
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


	5. Camelot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers. Please, be aware.**
> 
>  
> 
> A great thank you to **sideris** for betaing this fic. If you like johnlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ooOoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anja felt so light she believed she could _fly_ home. Everything around her had gained new qualities; colours seemed more vibrant and the grey city, full of life. Everything felt alive around her; the walls, the lampposts, the cars, the street itself; and people and pigeons and sparrows seemed like they'd burst into singing, laughing, dancing – and she'd join them, she would; she'd jump and clap and twist and twirl around. She felt like springing into the puddles the rain had left, and splashing water to the air and making rainbows with drops. She felt young again, young and full of energy, of happiness, of hope. The clouds above her were grey; but oh, what beautiful shades of grey they had, what a range of hues, and the sun behind them lit up the sky as if it were a fuzzy black-and-white photo of some jolly picnic in the countryside. Even the cold felt invigorating.

When she reached home and thanked her friend and waved her goodbye, Anja was so happy she couldn't imagine staying cooped up indoors. So she took little Sherlock, wrapped her and went out once more. What a pretty little baby she had! And she was her mother, and John was her father, and she was full of love for that cute living incarnation of the link she shared with her husband. She hadn't taken good care of baby Sherlock lately, she'd been so centred on herself, God. But she would now; she would, because her daughter deserved that and much more. Mary smiled brightly at her daughter's clear eyes. _John's eyes_ , she thought warmly. John. She knew where to go: to the city, back to the city, back to the grey jungle, so marvellously alive. And she was full of joy herself, because she was 45 and still alive, and healthy once again, and part of the human jungle of London. Mary strolled with the baby secured against her chest, and she looked at the streets with almost as big eyes as those of her daughter, enjoying every breath, every step, every stop she made.

Half an hour later, she stood in front of the hospital where John worked, the hospital she used to work in. She had bought a bouquet of white roses – an extravagance she had felt like spending money on, for once. It was a foolish thing to do, she knew; their colleagues would probably tease John no end after this. But she needed to share her joy with him – with _him_ , it had to be him. John would finish his shift in no time; he had to, he couldn't work overtime today, not today, no, impossible. Today was a happy day, today everybody ought to be enjoying themselves.

Finally, after some twenty minutes of waiting, Mary watched her husband come out of the clinic. He had his head bowed, his gaze locked on the stairs below, and he walked hunched with shadows under his eyes. Mary's heart clenched. But then John looked up, and saw her across the street, and his face lit with one of his beautiful smiles of incredulity. Mary smiled back; didn't stop smiling until John crossed the street and greeted her with a kiss and a careful hug that included their daughter.

She'd have to tell him what Sherlock and she had talked about, she knew. But this moment was too perfect. Not now, she thought, with a sudden needle of worry piercing her stomach.

John circled her waist with his arm and they walked home.

* * *

Sherlock was still in Jerry's Café. It had stopped raining, but it was still cloudy. He was bored. _Oh, for goodness' sake. Again_. He needed John.

That's when his phone vibrated. And vibrated again. And kept vibrating, insistent and demanding. Exactly like the person calling. With a sigh and an eye-roll, Sherlock finally picked it up.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Nice to hear you too, brother dearest”

Sherlock didn't deign to answer.

“Oh, please, Sherlock. Don't.”

“What?”

“Put your nose in the air like an offended aristocrat when I speak to you.”

“I didn't.” But he had, very much so.

“Didn't you?” said a voice next to him, and Sherlock looked up in displeasure to find the sharp smile of his brother. 

“May I?” Mycroft asked, but sat down before Sherlock could have said anything. He looked at the lipstick trace on the cup and said, “First you engage in sexual intercourse with a married man and then you cheat on him with his wife?” His smile was slight but effective. Sherlock was irked.

“Oh my,” Mycroft added, gloating in his smug, irritating way and wriggling subtly in his chair. “But you're a real Casanova, aren't you, little brother?”

“Nonsense. You're becoming sloppy, Mycroft. You've let your observation skills get blunt.”

Mycroft's sharp smile broadened. “Allow me to disagree. Although I admit that even the bluntest of the observational skills couldn't possibly miss the lipstick mark on this cup.”

“That doesn't prove anything, Mycroft.”

“No, it doesn't. But the café's CCTV cameras do.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “You'd be nobody without your damn cameras.”

Mycroft's smile grew even larger. “Possibly,” he conceded with such self-satisfaction it didn't sound like a concession at all. “But as it is,” he purred, “I am _not_ nobody.”

Sherlock snorted. “Indeed, Your Majesty.” Mycroft was enjoying this so much it was indecent.

Mycroft ignored him and rummaged on his black briefcase like some businessman would. “By the way," he said, "Mum sends her love and asks when you are going to visit them.”

“On the 30th of February.”

Mycroft looked up from his briefcase, looking comically annoyed. Sherlock answered by raising his eyebrows and cocking his head.

“They miss you, Sherlock. You should at least say hello.”

“Funny. I've missed me as well, lately. I'm currently in the process of catching up with myself. So, if you'd be so kind.” He pointed at the exit door with his chin. “Thank you.”

Mycroft raised his chin and smiled tightly. “I have some business to discuss with you.”

“With all the CCTV cameras reading our lips?” retorted Sherlock with a smirk. 

Mycroft mirrored it, and said, “They're not recording right now.” He rummaged a bit more in his elegant briefcase, as if looking for a classified, top-secret document. He finally found what he was searching for. “Fancy a piece of chewing-gum?”

Sherlock couldn't believe his ears. He'd expect something of importance. But Mycroft wasn't aware he'd just incriminated himself, so Sherlock would take advantage of it. Mycroft shrugged, said “As you prefer,” and put a piece of chewing-gums on his mouth. Sherlock looked at the wrapping. Mint-flavoured, sugar-free. He smirked once more. 

“I've been pulling all the strings I could, Sherlock,” he said, suddenly serious. “I've even put myself in compromising and delicate situations, to clear your name off the records and keep you out of prison.”

“Should I be grateful?” Sherlock shot back, and was pleased when his brother's cheeks became pink with anger.

“Definitely,” answered Mycroft, his smooth voice concealing the outrage Sherlock knew his brother felt. “Moreover, you should stop snooping around and impersonating New Scotland Yard officers.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, secretly proud of having annoyed him. “Not again, Mycroft. Stop scolding me like a child.”

“Stop acting like one, then,” his brother answered, indignant but calmer. Sherlock was barely able to suppress a smile. That's how they worked, his brother and him. No apologies, few kind words – but they knew exactly how to soothe each other. Sherlock would bait Mycroft saying he wasn't a child, and Mycroft would answer something along the 'yes, you are' line, and everything would fall back into comfortable, familiar ground. Sherlock finally gave in and smiled faintly. He must admit to himself he enjoyed this as much as Mike did.

“As a matter of fact,” added Mycroft, raising his eyebrows with pointed dignity, “You should be grateful. I even arranged for you to be allowed to continue playing detective, Sherlock.”

“Is that so?” asked Sherlock, suddenly irritated. “Then by all means, let me _play_ detective. You wouldn't happen to know where Martin Galloway, Rose Seaton and Paul Smedley could possibly be, would you?”

Mycroft half-closed his eyes, annoyed. Sherlock smirked. Then Mycroft smiled with cold grace and said, “I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Mycroft,” Sherlock purred. “Erasing the CCTV footage? Too obvious. You so smuggle kids out of YOI like an amateur.”

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow. “Nonsense,” he answered, inspecting his fingernails. “I have better things to do with my spare time than freeing criminals and violating the law.”

It was Sherlock's turn to smile like the cat that got the cream. “Haven't you done so with me countless times?”

The glare Mycroft shot him was priceless. Sherlock felt pretty sure his deduction was right, but something was off; there were missing pieces in the puzzle. He frowned.

Mycroft sighed. “You did well with the Moriarty prank case, Sherlock,” he said. “You can rest now. Why don't you take a holiday? Look, I'm feeling generous. If you behave I might pay your expenses. Take John and Mary with you, if you want – I won't pay _their_ expenses, though.” Mycroft's velvety tone became chilly. “You're overexerting yourself. The whole Moriarty affair affected you more deeply than I anticipated, I'm afraid. I'm concerned, Sherlock.” His voice became hard as ice. “To imagine I could be involved with those children's prison break, good gracious. Don't tell me you're losing your grasp on reality, Sherlock. Drugs, emotions... and before you're aware you'll be flirting with madness as well.” His voice became more brotherly, but not less dangerous. “It'd break my heart to see your mind – your sharpest tool – thus blunted. Don't do that to me.”

Sherlock felt frozen. He didn't know how Mycroft always managed to put him in his place – _below_ his place, actually. It was because of moments like these that Sherlock had named him his arch-enemy. John took it as a joke. But Sherlock knew better. Sherlock knew that under his suave persona, Mycroft was _dangerous_. Sherlock smirked, suddenly thrilled.

“Mycroft,” he purred with his deepest voice tone, “ _brother dearest_ , I'm always touched by your concern for me.”

“You're welcome.”

Sherlock took some dramatic seconds before talking again. “However, Mycroft, I assure you I need no holiday.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so?” he answered, his voice full of sweet daggers. 

“Yep,” Sherlock shot back. “I'll stop 'snooping around' if you tell me the truth. Were you the one who smuggled those kids out of prison?”

Mycroft's answer came smoothly. “No, Sherlock,” he said with an infuriating, paternalist tone. “And I do urge you to stop 'snooping around', for your own good. I cannot cover for you forever.”

 _Well_ , Sherlock thought, _like John'd say, 'bugger'_.

“Tea?” offered Mycroft with the sweetest of tones.

“No, _thanks_ ,” Sherlock growled. He knew Mycroft knew something. He knew Mycroft knew he knew, and he knew he wouldn't be able to make Mycroft talk anyway.

_Bugger._

Outside Jerry's Café, it started raining again.

* * *

John had felt the need to sit in his old 221b Baker Street comfy chair. That'd been half an hour ago, and he still felt limp. Mary did tell him something about Sherlock's proposal, but nothing could have had prepared him for the talk they'd just had.

Mary had been absolutely radiant that afternoon – she had come to fetch him to the hospital, with the baby and a lovely bouquet of white roses. Her face had been lit of happiness, which was odd enough for John to notice it. It'd been a nice improvement. What had happened for Mary to be so full of lively happiness?

Now he knew, and he wasn't sure he welcomed the news. It had been too sudden, too unpredictable, like an unexpected punch to the face. John's hands felt moist and he fiddled with them nervously.

Mary was sitting on the sofa, next to the window, with little Sherly asleep in her arms. The city was the only thing that illuminated her figure – they'd been too absorbed in the conversation to remember to switch the light on. She was beautiful, in a kind of an eerie way.

_I don't want to share her._

The ugly thought startled John a bit, then he felt angry at himself. _She's not mine to 'share'_ , he scolded himself, then he felt his eyes dragged towards the other person in the room.

Sherlock was standing, and had crossed his arms at his chest. His slender body was leant against the edge of the table, his back to the window, his face in the shadows. He wasn't _his_ either, John thought with a pang, despite himself. Sherlock turned his handsome face towards Mary and the orange glow of the street lamps lit his sharp profile. They seemed like characters from a black-and-white film. It made John's heart beat faster; he felt a knot in his stomach, and he licked his lips.

He'd been unable to say a single thing since he'd sunk into the chair. He cleared his throat. “ _Ménage à trois,_ ” he stated, rather than asked. That's what Sherlock'd said with his velvety voice. Words that felt foreign, yet not, as if from the other side of a mirror. Like a hazy memory from a past life. Or the reflection of the moon on a lake.

John worried the cuticles of his left hand with the nail of his right thumb. He was unsure about his feelings. He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit worried. And insecure. His fingers tapped against his leg for the thousandth time. Sherlock and Mary? Together? _Without_ him? If he was honest, thinking about a threesome kind of excited him. And he did want to feel hope, he wanted to believe that'd be the answer, the happy end of a fairy tale. But again: Sherlock and Mary? Together? _Without_ him? Because if he'd understood it well, they aimed to be... _on their own_ as well as with him. He honestly didn't feel so sure about that. He'd be left out. He felt a stabbing pain of jealousy, pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on his knees. It was simple, really. He didn't want to be left out, he didn't want to feel less loved. _Nobody does, right_?

 _Right. Absolutely right._ That was why when one thought about it level-headedly, it made sense. Their arguments made sense. John took a deep breath. Both Sherlock and Mary were periodically left out with the arrangement they had now. He didn't want to be a selfish git. John shifted slightly. Two of the most important people of his life wanted this. Which was a bit unsettling for him. But. If you thought about it level-headedly... it made sense. _Right? Right._ They'd all live at 221b Baker Street. He'd be able to live with the people he loved most. This might work, in fact. For the better. It might work. It had to.

He finally dared to give a timid half smile. “The rent will certainly be cheaper,” he said lightly, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. Mary and Sherlock smiled, understanding John's mute message of acceptance. Was it his imagination, or did they seem to be as unsure as he felt? Mary certainly looked a bit like a puppy who'd broken a flower vase. John decided not to think too much and to lighten the mood, if he could. “I'd like to see you taking care of the baby,” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock's smile disappeared with comic speed.

“I beg your pardon? It's _your_ daughter,” he said, lifting his nose.

“And your goddaughter,” Mary replied, siding with John. Sherlock frowned. “Don't tell me this was your plan all along; to burden _me_ with _your_ baby.”

John was pleased to notice that a positive, happy excitement was beginning to replace his darker thoughts. This could work. _It has to._ He smiled, and saw Mary mirroring him.

“Hey; this arrangement was _your_ plan,” John heard her saying to Sherlock.

“Which I couldn't have thought of without your original proposal,” Sherlock retorted.

John snorted nervously. Then an issue popped into his mind, and he sobered a bit. “And what will we do about the bedrooms?” he asked.

Mary shot him a sharp look, but Sherlock was unfazed by the thorny question. “I've thought about that. Let's put your old bed next to mine. They're both big enough for the three of us, and my bedroom's relatively spacious. We'll be a bit cramped though. And I'd turn your old bedroom into the baby's bedroom. When she gets older.”

John looked at him with glad amazement, and saw a similar look on Mary's face. “You really thought it through, didn't you?” asked Mary, her voice coloured with wonder. Sherlock's smile showed comic self-satisfaction. John laughed; nervous, incredulous, and said, “ _Really_ , Sherlock. I don't know if you're a huge romantic in denial or a closet pervert.” Sherlock answered with his beautifully timid smile, and Mary giggled.

“Both of them,” said Sherlock with childish glee.

“Cheeky smart ass,” shot Mary.

“Why, thank you.”

John felt relieved to hear himself snort and laugh at that. He might actually manage the situation. This could work. Was he allowed to have hope? Would they reach unexpected heights of happiness or would they fall into 'a pit full of fire'? Would he be able to win the war against his ugliest side? Or would he be too weak? He felt a nervous excitement, something between fear of pain and hope to survive unscathed, a daring impulse he'd only felt in the battlefield and working with Sherlock. “Jesus,” he said, a bit embarrassed. “This seems a silly high school trip. We're too old to behave like this; this is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” replied Sherlock. “Hmm. I wouldn't be able tell. My public image includes a deerstalker, you see.” John heard Mary snigger. “Besides,” Sherlock added, “I didn't really get to enjoy silly high school trips when I was the age to do so.” He'd clearly meant it to be funny, it had the opposite effect, for it had triggered Mary.

“Nor did I,” she said quietly.

This silence was suddenly much graver than any they had had that evening. The mood had changed so fast John felt a cold fear creeping up his stomach.

“Mary –” said he, and she cut him off saying, “ _Anja._ ”

Another deep silence. Damn, it was hard to breathe. And then, he whispered, “I know.”

Mary shot him a sharp look. “You _know?_ ”

John looked back at her eyes. “I read your files.”

Mary's face turned as white as a sheet. “You did?” she said with a weak voice. “You told me you didn't.”

John shifted in his seat, abashed. “I thought it'd mortify you.”

Silence.

“And why are you telling me now?”

Another awkward silence. Slowly, John said, “Because I got the impression it'd mortify you less now.”

Mary remained mute; John watched her take a deep breath and exhale it. “So?” she asked in that unusually deep, strangled voice he'd learnt to identify as signalling contained anxiety.

John tapped his knees with his fingers, pondering his next words. “Well...” he said, “I already did my pouting and doubting.” He gave her a weak half-smile. “For six months.”

A tense silence.

“You asked me if 'Mary Watson' was good enough for me,” she said, and John looked at Mary with dread. She seemed to be as nervous as he was. She tapped the floor with her foot and said, “It _is_ good enough. But...”

“Your name is Anja Gertrud Richter Achenbach,” said Sherlock from the shadows, startling John. Mary’s face turned very serious. 

“It is,” she answered.

John looked at her with a heavy weight on his chest. He took a moment to regain his voice. “I – ” he cleared his throat “ – I didn't know that name was so important to you.”

It was Sherlock who answered. “Do you not observe, John? It's obvious it is, if she even writes her mother's maiden surname.”

“Don't, Sherlock,” said Mary. He looked taken aback; fell silent and retreated his face into the shadows. They remained in silence once again, and once again, Mary was the one to talk. “I became used to being Mary Morstan, but... I always thought of it as a disguise. Until I met you,” she added, looking at John with reddening eyes. 

He swallowed and croaked, “Would you prefer to be called Anja?”

Her gaze fell to her hands, a technique he knew she used to recompose herself. “I don't know any more,” she stated calmly, monotonously; and somehow her collected face made his throat clench. It was difficult to breathe. Mary - Anja? - blinked, and said, “But it could be dangerous to be called Anja in public. I took Mary Morstan's identity for a reason.” Correct, calm, rational. A mask she seldom had to put on - she had better ways of concealing her feelings, John knew her as much. This last mask was a security mask - her last resort, the last wall containing the reservoir water. If it broke... no, he wouldn't let it break.

“The Government knows about you?,” he asked, although it went out rather like a statement.

Mary nodded. “Even so...” Her voice trailed off, and then she tried again. “I don't know." Silence. "Well... I kind of _am_ Mary by now, anyway.”

It didn't do anything to ease the weight on John's chest, as it should have. Though he couldn't say why.

***

" _John!_ For God's sake, the number eight!"

John was startled out of his thoughts and stammered, "Wha?"

" _The number eight!_ " repeated an irritated Sherlock, this time going so far as to raise his eyes from the microscope. 

John mumbled a "Sorry" and took one of the slides containing bits of evidence Sherlock found at the Marshland YOI. This one seemed to have a greenish piece of cloth inside. John blinked. It was but a couple of days since they had what he called 'the chat', and he still felt so overwhelmed by it, he was distracted all the time. It was even interfering with his job.

John frowned. Some moments he felt full of nervous hope, of adrenaline; like a kid who'd been told to help grown-ups with a grown-up job. But since he'd been a grown-up for years, he also felt fear and doubt. He'd always thought he wasn't the type to love stability and order in his life, to the point he enrolled for a damned _war_. But somehow, this _ménage-à-trois_ destabilised his life in a sense the Army hadn't. He felt as if The Walls were melting - those Walls he'd never seen up till now. He felt empty, so unsure he didn't even know if it was fear he felt, or pain, or excitement. He felt as if he'd lost his grip on the frames he'd held fast to all his life. John sneered at himself. He hadn't felt this way when he finally admitted to himself feeling sexually attracted to another man. He hadn't even felt this way when he engaged in - what to call it? Allowed adultery? John snorted, suddenly bitter. That's how he'd felt, right? All the good sides of an adultery without its bad sides. Only guilt when he thought of Mary - and then he'd remember she'd allowed it, and he'd felt better, and he'd enjoyed the rush of loving Sherlock.

But now he'd have to live the other side of the same coin, and suddenly the matter became pretty damn serious. And the really fucked up thing was, he loved both of them so much his chest hurt when he thought of them. He was confused, like a puppy who hadn't expected to be kicked. Was it a huge, painful betrayal, what Sherlock and Mary had done? Was it just fair play? How would all this evolve?

" _John_ , you know your admiration is always both welcome and justified, but as a doctor, I find your staring at an ordinary slide for so long is way _too much_ ," Sherlock snapped, startling John out of his thoughts again. For a moment, it seemed as if Sherlock was going to stand up and grab the damn thing from his hands - a thought that excited John. But no, Sherlock stayed where he was. John almost snorted. Sherlock stand up and do menial things for himself? Nonsense. John smiled fondly, looked at his lover's face, and found his pale blue eyes looking back with a rare warmth.

"I'll try it again, John," he said. 

_Try again what?_ thought John, dumbfounded. What Sherlock had said should've been a warning, but the man's overall expression didn't show anger or exasperation. 

"John, would you mind passing me the slide labelled with an eight? I'd rather not stand up, I don't want to lose my concentration."

 _Now_ John was dumbfounded.

"Of course, Sherlock," he said, still not believing his ears. He saw something crossing Sherlock's face - pain? Love? Tenderness? (Was it even _possible_ for Sherlock to feel _tenderness?_ ). John couldn't help it: he approached Sherlock slowly, never looking anywhere else than his face, put the slide next to the microscope, cupped Sherlock's neck with one hand and kissed him on the cheek, slowly, sensuously, savouring the moment. He felt Sherlock's Adam's apple rising and then falling, and then his slender arm circling his waist. John felt instantly aroused. So quickly, so intensely aroused - Sherlock had his collar open _again_ , dammit, one couldn't _not_ stare at that - and then look at his eyelashes, at his slender but obviously manly hands manipulating the microscope -

"John," he heard Sherlock saying, and the rumble in his voice made John's heart beat faster. "I'm sorry, but I've got to continue investigating. Three teenagers disappeared." His smile was small and incredibly lovable. John felt a tiny bit disgruntled, but he knew work was work, especially for Sherlock. He grinned. 

"Maybe don't do the smiling, then," he shot back, and marvelled at Sherlock's amused face.

Jesus, how could he hold onto any kind of resentment at him?

***

This was awkward. Not like with John, at all.

And it felt foreign. Mary seemed like an alien, sitting on his bed. She didn't even look at him. At least she kept her composure. Didn't start crying, or whispering "I love you", or strip-teasing. No film thing. That was positive. But now Sherlock felt impatient. And angry at himself.

It was so obvious even _he_ saw what was wrong.

They weren't attracted to each other. Not enough, at least.

His perfect solution to the equation didn't seem to work. And Sherlock wasn't used to his intellect failing him. It was annoying. He felt frustrated. He needed John to explain human behaviour to him. It was irritating how humans always failed to meet his expectations.

Including Mary. Most inconvenient. What was her expression again? Guilt, probably. So irrational. _Think, Sherlock. Think! Why would Mary not feel attracted to you?_

No. Wrong question. There were thousands of answers to that. Impractical. Think of another.

_How to persuade Mary to go through with this?_

...

Damn it. The first question had thousands of answers, the second one had none.

Mary hadn't said or done anything and Sherlock was conscious he had little time left to think of a way to go through with the plan. He needed time. What to do? What to do?

 _I could ask her to go make tea for us. It works with John._ He almost said it, then remembered the last time he asked that of Janine. She'd laughed and called him a male something - he didn't remember. Irrelevant. Point was, when he insisted, she grew angry and didn't comply. _Only John does,_ Sherlock thought fondly. _Oh, for Christ's sake, Sherlock. Think!_

He glanced at Mary and found her fixing her gaze to the window. She had no make-up, but wore her _Clair de lune_ perfume, he could smell it. What did it mean? She didn't always wear perfume did she? Oh. Maybe. Maybe Mary didn't wear it, but Anja did?

Good gracious. He'd found the question, and he'd found the answer while he was at it. No wonder John admired him, he sometimes couldn't help admiring himself.

The right question with which to start was: _Who is she?_

 _She's both Mary_ and _Anja._

And the next question wasn't 'how to persuade Mary to go through with this?', but 'how to persuade _Anja_ to go through with this?'. 

He chose to test the waters. He took a deep breath to speak in a deep voice - he read somewhere women liked that. Ridiculous, but he hated losing, so he wouldn't risk failure.

"Anja," he said, and Mary turned her face towards him so fast she must've hurt her neck. She looked at him in silence, highly expectant, with a strange look in her eyes. Right track? Must continue experimenting. "Do you still take time to train your shooting skills?"

Her eyes seemed sharp daggers. _Stop thinking like John, you fool._ No. No, wait. Maybe it _was_ the moment to think like John did.

"I do," she answered. "Why?"

Sherlock shrugged and looked through the black window, feigning indifference. "Pretty cool," he baited. Bingo. Mary - Anja, rather - had a proud half-smile she hadn't been able to hide. He tried to go further. "But I suppose that's not the only thing you're good at."

"I'd never have believed you'd be one for bed-talk and innuendos, Sherlock."

 _I'm not_ , he thought, but smiled instead. "One has to adapt to the circumstances."

Anja snorted. Then her face turned sad so quickly it didn't seem possible. _What have I done wrong?_ thought Sherlock. How to proceed?

"Sherlock," Mary whispered. "How about sleeping together? I mean, with no sex or anything. We shouldn't force things."

Sherlock was stupefied. _No, no, no!_ What the hell was wrong?! Weren't they just getting in the mood or something? He _had_ felt a difference. Hadn't he? Jesus Christ, Mary never stopped surprising him with unexpected actions. If human emotions were hard to predict, Mary's were a mystery. Right when he thought he'd managed to look through the keyhole, the room behind it was pitch black and he could only make out vague movements in the shadows. It was frustrating. He felt an old but frighteningly acute rancour towards women. They always failed him.

_I always fail them._

It had all seemed so simple when he first thought of a _ménage-à-trois._

There was no intimacy that night.

* * *

It still felt ridiculous to her, but hey, things had improved at least.

It was her second time in 221b Baker Street. Sherlock had seemed disgruntled and surprised last night, when she'd suggested just sleeping. Mary felt a bit guilty. But she couldn't help feeling sad when she was with him - with Sherlock. Sadness. Melancholy. A pain that was sweet, yes; but pain nonetheless. Those weren't feelings that aroused her. And one thing she was certain of, if she wasn't aroused, she wasn't going to have sex.

But things hadn't been so simple. Oh, no. Because, as obtuse as Sherlock seemed to be about all things human, last night he'd nailed it. Nailed it so much it'd frightened Mary. Whether it'd been a blind shot or not, she didn't know, but it _had_ worked. Sherlock had summoned the Anja deep inside her; that young, wild, indomitable woman who still swore in German. The Anja who took pride in being deadly, dangerous. The Anja who felt flattered when asked to show off her shooting skills. The Anja who was very sure of herself and of what she wanted. And he had tempted her. He'd challenged her. Was he aware that the thrill of competition was one of the few things that still exhilarated Anja out of Mary? That wanting the prize pushed her to play the game, no matter how dangerous, questionable or bound to failure her actions might be?

She'd felt that fleeting spark. And then he had to mention adapting to the circumstances - and Mary's fear and melancholy took over Anja's aggressive excitement. She'd closed the half-opened doors with a bang.

And now, here they were again, alone in 221b Baker Street. Sherlock's face was even blanker than usual. Of course. Mary knew he was a sore loser. He probably hadn't forgotten, nor forgiven, last night. He didn't like to be beaten. Mary felt uncomfortable. He might very well choose to be uncooperative, if things weren't done the way he wanted. She had to be very careful tonight.

* * *

Was she flirting with him? Sherlock frowned. She was. Damn her, she _was_. For God's sake. So _now_ she did want to be sensible and go through with the plan? Well, little Missus Watson. Don't think you can toy with me. Don't think I'm bloody _John_.

"Maybe we should just sleep tonight, Mary. You were right, we shouldn't force ourselves."

* * *

John was restless. He'd tried to chill out reading the newspaper with a cup of tea, but the third time he read the same paragraph and realised he didn't know what it was about, he gave up. 

_Sherlock and Mary_. Sherlock and Mary. Were they attracted to each other even before all this started? Had it been a move he hadn't foreseen? Was it vengeance? How could he think so ill of the people he loved most?

It was the third time Mary was staying over at Baker Street. They hadn't talked about what'd happened the other two nights. The bed felt so cold and big without her; he didn't want to go through that again.

He was alone. John groaned. No, not truly alone. Yet. 

_Thank God the baby's fast asleep._

Oh this was nuts. They couldn't continue like this. It was barely two weeks and he felt he might _explode_. Sometimes he imagined them having sex. It was ironic how easily he could picture them naked and aroused. Sometimes, that image made him feel a stabbing pain. Sometimes, he felt aroused. Most of the time it was a mixture of both. 

It was barely 19:30. Mary hadn't been home when he came back. 

To hell with everything. He couldn't take it any more. How had they even _borne_ it? 

John got out of the bed and looked for his mobile phone. When he found it, he hesitated. Should he ring Mary or Sherlock?

And an evil, Mr. Hyde-like idea took form inside his mind.

 _Neither of them,_ he thought. _Ring Mike. Mike Stamford. They might take care of baby Sherlock. And you could go over to 221b Baker Street to make your point._

Mr Hyde gloated. Dr Watson clicked his tongue. John groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. After some time, he finally decided to dial Mike's number. Then he looked at the phone. Hesitated. Didn't call. Then he looked at the phone again - the numbers shone with upsetting indifference. 

_Oh, to hell with everything._

"..."  
"..."  
"..."

_Finally._

"Hello? John, is it you?" Mike's voice was so friendly John felt a knot in his stomach. "What's up?"

He shouldn't leave the baby as if she were a package, thought John guiltily. Mr. Hyde snorted. _The Stamfords are good people. She's gonna be all right._

"John, mate?" he heard Mike saying, cleared his throat, and answered: "Yes, Mike, sorry. How are you?"

Mike laughed good-heartedly. "Oh, I'm doing fine, mate, as always. Did you ring me about having a beer together or something? Or is it something serious?"

John felt even more guilty than before. It'd been a long time since he'd asked him to go out for a drink. "Hmm... no, sorry, Mi - _mate_. We definitely _have_ to have a beer sometime," he rushed, " - but I'm not calling for that right now. See, Mary and I - " _A lie, fast!_ " - want to spend some time alone, you know what I mean, and - and we wondered if you'd mind taking care of our baby. Just for tonight, promise. Please."

When Mike didn't answer for some time, John started to worry. Perhaps it was a lot to ask of Mike; they were friends, but were they intimate enough to ask him _that_? Or perhaps he sucked at persuading people. Or maybe Mike thought they were monsters who didn't care about their daughter. Just when John was starting to regret ringing him, Mike laughed warmly. 

"Of course, John, mate! You know you can ask us for help any time you want, right? Only, I'd rather you warned us in advance. But no worries! Hannah and I're used to kids. Where do you want to meet?"

John sighed inwardly. "Half an hour, next to The Arrow? Is that OK?" 

"Of course, John, no problem. See you!"

John's heart was pounding fast and he must have had goose pimples. After leaving baby Sherlock with the Stamfords, he'd go straight to Baker Street. Fuck everything.

* * *

It was the third time they tried and it wasn't working. Mary sighed.

Well, it kind of was going better than the other times, since she'd made up her mind to try to summon her inner Anja, and Sherlock seemed satisfied with last night's petty vengeance. He had even made the obvious effort to dress in an alluring way, and in fact, so had she. He was lovely to look at. He was slender, fluid. Graceful. Suave, even. Yet masculine. But, somehow, despite her efforts, Mary's mind kept drifting to John. Guilt. It was stupid to feel it, really, they were doing nothing wrong. Nothing worse than what John'd been doing. But. Her position and John's were different. John'd been attracted to Sherlock's arse way before she'd appeared in the picture.

That made a huge difference. One had but to observe how the men looked at each other; she could tell they were momentarily oblivious to everything around them. They stared at each other like thirsty men stared at a well. Embarrassingly, remembering those encounters - their mute, mutual attraction - aroused her more and longer than any previous attempt at seduction Sherlock or she had made. She felt both ashamed and depressed. She didn't know she had voyeuristic tendencies, but she must have. She was so messed up.

She was sitting on what'd been John's armchair, and Sherlock was sitting on his own. He had made an especial effort to light the place with candles and the scene was - well, first of all, very _cliché_ and verging on the ridiculous, but then again, it did succeed in creating a dreamy, relaxed atmosphere - when you let yourself believe in the smoke and mirrors. He _was_ handsome - she felt almost rude for not feeling so attracted to him as, say, John was - but she couldn't _pretend_ either. She had pretended so much in the past - for different reasons - she didn't want to any more. Not with Sherlock. Mary felt a new pang of guilt. She'd silenced so many things already...

Suddenly, Sherlock's whole demeanour changed and he looked at the door.

"Can't be," he mumbled, and Mary felt a shiver down her spine. Danger? Her old instincts kicked in and she tensed. 

"How many, would you say?" she whispered, already reaching for her concealed gun, and felt confused when Sherlock looked at her, puzzled.

"Just John," he cleared, and Mary felt another kind of shiver. And indeed, some seconds later, John appeared through the living room. She'd seldom seen him like that.

She felt unaccountably aroused.

* * *

When John entered the living room, Sherlock couldn't help smirking.

"My, John, it seems I'm not the only one prone to dramatic entrances," he purred. 

"I learnt from the best, Sherlock," John shot back, his expression even wilder.

_Excellent._

"John," said Mary, "you haven't let the baby alone, have you?"

John's expression lost some of its fierceness. "No, I haven't, Mary. I left her with the Stamford's. They're good people. Old friends."

"Yes, I know, John, dear." A tense silence. Mary licked her lips. John took a shaky breath. Sherlock saw an opportunity. 

"Then, John," he said, using that deep voice he knew John liked, "You have no objections to staying over."

John suddenly seemed dubious, deflated, like a pricked balloon. _Why? What's the problem?_

"Weren't you... I mean...Just you two..." John stammered.

"It's not working as well as we thought," Mary said quickly. 

Sherlock felt irritated - no need to tell John they had - _he_ had - failed. 

"Nonetheless," Sherlock said, "I'd think our achievements or lackthereof don't really matter to you, John, since you came here anyway. Isn't that so?" 

John had the decency to turn pink. He was so endearing when he was defenceless. Not that he didn't appreciate his strong side either. Sherlock smiled. He felt as predatory as when he chased after a criminal. 

The game was on.

* * *

To say John felt awkward was an understatement. He'd come in a fury, intending to say all this had been a bad idea, a fucked up experiment, a sick arrangement, what the hell were they even thinking, we're married Mary, let's go home; and fuck you Sherlock, you selfish bastard, set me fucking free, you demand too much, you toy with me, I want to be normal again, lead a normal life with its normal complications and die old, not of a fucking heart attack. 

Instead, he was now in a situation he could almost imagine the tumbleweed rolling on the floor. Sherlock was right. He'd come to send everything to rot in hell. He'd expected to find Sherlock and Mary engaged in steamy sex, enjoying themselves, and he'd expected them to be angry at him. What he'd found though, was a pair of very nicely dressed sexy bodies looking at him as if they'd been waiting him all along. John swallowed, nervous. This changed things. 

Sherlock stood up. He was being his predatory self, John could see. It was difficult not to be mesmerised by Sherlock's commanding grace. But at the same time, John was abnormally conscious of Mary's presence. He couldn't let himself be drown in Sherlock's eyes in front of her. Damn him. Sherlock. John felt as if his eyes were physically locked with Sherlock's. With great effort, he averted his gaze. But only to notice Mary's eyes, which burnt like he'd seldom seen them burn. His heart started beating faster. It was a delicate moment, but if they got it right... he felt himself hardening. He felt his own inner predator waking up, and he could almost hear Mr Hyde's smug snigger. He started breathing shallowly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"What are you waiting for, John?" he baited, and that was the last straw. John felt his heart pound like a hammer. 

"I'm waiting for you to lie down on your bed,” he growled. “We can't play doctor if the patient refuses to collaborate.”

Sherlock's cheeks turned pink, and John smiled. He'd won. 

* * *

"I'm waiting for you to lie down on your bed," John replied, startling Mary. His tone was darker and meaner than usual; a tone he never used with her. She shivered. "We can't play doctor if the patient refuses to collaborate.” 

Mary observed with embarrassed curiosity Sherlock's cheeks turn pink. Jesus. She really didn't know that side of John – their love-making had never relied on performing elaborate fantasies... nor on that kind of bed-talk.

“We've never played doctor before,” she said to him, half-embarrassed and half-excited. John seemed suddenly abashed. 

“You've never had a patient before,” replied Sherlock with a cheekiness that was clearly intended to combat the awkwardness. 

Mary felt a grin on her face.“True,” she said. The game was luring her. “Well, Dr. Watson. Need a nurse?” 

John smiled, visibly relieved to see her playing along. “I do,” he said with fake gravity, “He's a problematic one.” 

Mary suppressed a smile and pretended to speak with professional detachment. “I see. Does he need to be bound?” 

Sherlock seemed genuinely embarrassed. “That won't be necessary,” he muttered lifting his chin, and strode towards his bedroom, not looking back even once. Mary looked at John, and he smiled, suddenly timid. A giggle bubbled out of her. 

They followed Sherlock.

* * *

John couldn't believe they were finally doing it. He felt both aroused and embarrassed - he'd never shown his darker self to Mary, those questionable desires that seemed so natural when he was with Sherlock; that frighteningly strong and irrational urge to dominate in which he'd never let himself indulge, never, in any aspect of his life. Except...

Enough. He was at home now, more at home than ever, not _over there_. He was about to have what would probably be one of his most amazing, steamy sex experiences of his life. He had to focus, he had to make everything go perfectly, he had to...

Mary's reassuring smile cut through his thoughts and he felt calmer. He then looked at Sherlock, at Sherlock and his burning eyes. He was sitting on his bed like a king on his throne. John swallowed. He didn't _have_ to do anything, that was the very point. He let everything go. He approached Sherlock, slowly, carefully; kissed his cheek and felt Sherlock's hand caressing him from underneath his shirt. He smelled so good, so confusingly masculine. So himself. So _Sherlock_.

John took a shaky breath and licked Sherlock's salty neck. He could barely think straight.

* * *

Mary looked at the scene and felt oddly aroused by it. She'd never have thought she'd enjoy voyeurism, even less if the scene included her husband, but surprise! She _was_ a pervert after all. She didn't feel as bad about it as she thought she should, though. And she didn't feel left out either. 

But Mary did feel a bit unsure about taking action and touching Sherlock. John walked away from him and she took it as a sign, now that Sherlock was lying down. Slowly, she touched Sherlock's cheek with tentative fingers. They had never managed to go as far when they'd been on their own. Sherlock closed his eyes, expectant, and she cupped his face. Sherlock's skin was smoother than John's, clean shaven as he was. Her husband approached her and hugged her from behind, in such a tender way that Mary's heart started to beat harder. John's breath was hot against her ear. “Caress his face,” he said with a husky voice. “Comb his hair.” Mary took a deep breath and did as she was told. When her fingers touched Sherlock's head, he exhaled in contentment. She could feel John's breath becoming shallower and his grip tightening – he was getting turned on, and they had barely started. Mary felt her own breath quickening.

John stopped hugging her; he left an arm around her waist but used the other one to touch Sherlock's clothed chest gently and then to grip one of his shoulders. Sherlock opened his eyelids languidly and shot John an intense look; John approached his face slowly, calmly, and kissed him – first a chaste kiss, then another, then a French kiss, then another; each one more heated than the previous. They practically vibrated with passion, with something so deep and intense that Mary couldn't help having her eyes glued on their faces. She had felt a bit uncomfortable at first, seeing John so blatantly in love and aroused by another person, but then her mood swayed – because she was part of that too, part of that hot passion and love and lust that she gave and received as much as they did. She felt warm, she felt her heart pounding painfully against her chest, she felt aroused watching them kiss and she felt John's arm suddenly burning against her waist again. She decided to be more active and started massaging John's scalp as well – which made him groan. The room temperature shot up.

* * *

Sherlock felt giddy, almost drunk in a warmth that he couldn't define. His recently discovered – or rather, rediscovered – feelings of love and lust still overwhelmed him. This love-making was getting even more intense than the previous ones with John. His loyal friend was kissing him with a fire that rivalled their first encounter. Maybe fuelled by Mary being there? He felt a knot in his stomach and a weight of molten lead in his chest. He felt himself hardening, and shot a hand out to grip Mary's arm. He didn't know why he'd done it, but she gripped his in return.

He let himself go.

* * *

Oh God, Mary thought. Jesus. The men had stopped kissing, leaving their lips redder than before – almost as if they had put a discreet lipstick on. The queer thought turned her on so strongly that she felt confused, abashed, and had to close her eyes. John urged her towards him with his arm. “Let's undress him,” he said in a hoarse voice that provoked goose pimples on Sherlock's skin - she could _feel_ them - and made Mary shiver. They started to undress Sherlock, who remained limp to help them, until he was completely bare. Bony, skinny, lanky, white and flushed. He was less hairy than her husband, and he had tell-tale bruises inside of his left elbow. She shot a glance at John, but they both chose to ignore them. They started to undress in silence.

Mary felt suddenly unsure. “John,” she quietly said. “I think... I need to do this slowly." God, how she loved him. He was slightly flushed and breathing shallowly. She loved each of his wrinkles, each little expression of his good-natured face, and God, his eyes – those big, liquid eyes that looked at her with deep feelings of trust and friendship and affection and love and lust and – 

Mary closed her eyes, feeling pained and guilty. She reached for John, carefully caressing John's chest, then his neck, then his cheek, then his scalp. Her husband leant into her touch, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, they looked at each other and - _Mein Gott_ , he _knew_. He'd known all along.

* * *

Sherlock suddenly felt a lack of air in his lungs. That look. That burning look. Mary – no, Anja. It was Anja looking at him. Nonsense. Absurd. Yet true. Those eyes, that feeling, that... and understanding fell into him like a crumbling building. He felt himself panicking, then pleased, and then worried – and turned his guilty gaze to John. John and his sad smile, John and his utter humbleness.

Nobody dared to say anything, but everybody understood, Sherlock realised. And he also realised he was in shock. He felt his heart pounding, swelling like never before, utterly overwhelmed by the revelation.

Anja liked him. She had said so since the beginning, John had told him – but it wasn't that. Anja _liked_ him. He'd felt it in her eyes just now. He recognised that look – it was similar to John's. Not as intense, certainly. Even so, it was too much. Too much sentiment, too suddenly – too good to be true – too terrifying. It was a mess, such a confusing mess – Sherlock broke down. With sudden energy, he approached John and Mary and hugged them tightly – hugged them with a strength and a desperation that burned and scalded; what felt like molten steel boiled in his eyes and fell in unstoppable drops. 

He was loved. Sincerely loved. Not just by one person – but by two. Two of the people he cared for the most – but no. There had been others that loved and liked him, that still loved and liked him. He just hadn't been able to fully appreciate it. His parents. _Mycroft_ , in his way. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade. 

He was such an idiot. Such an insecure, arrogant, coward prick. It wasn't alone that had protected him, he realised. He'd _never_ been truly alone. And now, even less than ever.

** *

Sherlock hadn't whimpered, hadn't uttered a sound; John wouldn't have noticed his collapse if he hadn't seen his agonised face; felt his spasms. It was terrifying, like watching the fall of a kingdom, the bombing of an ancient city. He looked at Sherlock and then at Mary, overwhelmed and taken aback. It felt both right and wrong to see his cold, stoic friend so broken down by emotions, so utterly _vulnerable_. Mary seemed as dubious as he felt; she blinked rapidly and pointed to the bed with her chin. John understood her message and nodded. When Sherlock calmed down a bit, they coaxed him gently to lie on the mattress once more. He seemed so shocked and so lost he must be beyond feeling shame for his _human error_. Mary quietly agreed with a look not to speak about anything that had happened there. They didn't attempt anything else that night; they just slept together, warm skin on warm skin. John let his eyes busy themselves searching the ceiling, since his mind was weary of searching his heart.

* * *

Next morning, Mary awoke with a lazy sleepiness weighing on her eyelids. It was some time before she realised that the warm male body touching her was lankier than John's – and she remembered, and she blushed. Last night she had had a revelation; she had dared to see deep into her heart and had discovered Sherlock there, next to John. Not as deep as John, true – but there he was, much deeper than what she'd thought he'd be. Sherlock had his back pressed to hers; she slowly turned until she was looking up at the ceiling; she pushed herself up onto her elbows, then carefully sat down and looked at the men. The sheet was in a mess and only covered half of each man's body. They were fast asleep; Sherlock was spooning John's smaller frame, their faces so relaxed and contented, Mary's heart started beating faster. She remained like that for some minutes, until she felt a warm tide of desire slowly taking her body over. What the hell, she thought. Sometimes, they _really_ liked to complicate things with feelings and morals and shit. They – she – should remember to forget; to simplify, to not overthink, to simply _act_. She felt emboldened, much younger and more courageous; she lightly caressed Sherlock's bare forearm, her heart pounding in her throat. Anja lowered her head, slowly, and brushed his temple with her lips – then his cheek, then his jawline, then his neck. Sherlock hummed lightly, still asleep. Mary moved away from Sherlock, and she quietly approached John. She kissed him on his cheek, sweetly, softly; then his lips. And John, slowly but steadily, woke up. 

“Mary – ” he said in a raspy voice. 

“Shh,” she answered, smiling, and caressed his lips with her fingertips. John smiled back. “Sherlock's still asleep,” she clarified, and kissed John deeper. She pressed her body to his, almost lying on him, while they kissed and licked and caressed each other's skin.

* * *

At first, John hadn't been a hundred per cent awake, but he certainly was now. He tried to shift his body a bit so that he could lie, and in the process, he shot a glance towards Sherlock.

And his heart jumped to his throat.

Sherlock wasn't asleep; in fact, his pale blue eyes were fixed on him with a hunger that made John's stomach clench and his groin twitch. Mary sensed something; looked at John in the face and then at Sherlock and a slow smile took over her face. 

“Good morning, Sherlock,” she said. He flashed a smile. 

“Mind if I join in?” he asked, and they smiled – no, obviously not. Sherlock raised a tentative hand towards John and caressed his cheek with such unusual tenderness it left John - and by her look, Mary too - perplexed. Sherlock's face would've appeared neutral or unfeeling to an estranger, but not to John - he knew Sherlock enough to see the sentiment behind the façade. 

John licked his lips.

* * *

Mary inhaled sharply. She was aroused, aroused like she hadn't been in a long time. John had started massaging her breasts, squeezing and rolling her nipples. Sherlock looked somewhat timidly at John's fingers, and his own hand raised tentatively to touch one of Mary's breasts. She closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath; opened them again and said, “Kiss”. They looked at her in confusion. 

“I mean, kiss each other.” 

Her voice had become huskier with desire. Something seemed to crack inside John, who looked from her to Sherlock with such predatory intensity that he almost made her tremble in anticipation. John used one of his hands to coax Sherlock's head towards his; for some heated moments, they just stared at each other – and then Sherlock complied, closed his eyelids, and John kissed him in a languid and sensuous French kiss. Mary's heart started beating faster. Her husband was so much more... _primal_ when he was with Sherlock; she couldn't believe how sweet and yielding he was with her in bed – but Sherlock awoke something else in him, something that mesmerised Mary. It was as if John... didn't _hold back_ with Sherlock. The idea was thrilling. And then, she felt them, as they switched to their sides: John's erection rubbing her stomach, and Sherlock's rubbing her thigh. She was soaking wet by then, her folds pounding as if her heart was down there.

She inhaled sharply.

* * *

Sherlock's blood was racing. He could barely think straight. That would have worried him some time ago, but not now – no, now he was enjoying one of the best highs ever. He still wasn't used to John being so domineering. There was something predatory, aggressive in the way he moved against Sherlock, in the way he kissed him. It was a pleasant thrill, a simulation of danger, not a true threat. Sherlock knew John would never hurt him, and that kind of made his domineering ardour more appealing, melting Sherlock's armour and relaxing him, leaving him in John's hands. Because he knew that despite the power John held, he'd never crush him. He'd rather use his strength to protect him, to please him. Sherlock moaned softly at the idea, his hips rubbing against Mary's thigh before he noticed it was hers, pleasure building up and his penis rock hard. John. His John. His loyal, loyal love. 

* * *

Sherlock wasn't the only one with a rock-hard erection. John was breathing fast, pinned under his wife and glued to Sherlock. He could barely believe it was real, that he was in bed with both his loves, together – and enjoying one of the most intense sex he'd ever had. And they had barely begun. 

He felt Mary licking his neck and groaned. He was so aroused he didn't know if he'd be able to talk, but he had an idea, and he wanted to share it. "Mary. Sherlock," he said. "Wait. Let's try something." Both of them stopped and looked at him expectantly. "I want to try something... new."

Mary gave him a lazy smile turned sensual because of her arousal. "We already are doing something new to us, dear."

John smirked. "Just humour me, please?" he said. He looked at Sherlock, and his eyes made him hold his breath. 

"Of course," croaked Sherlock, and his voice sent a shiver down John's spine. He cleared his throat, suddenly a bit nervous.

"Mary, please, lie down on your back. Here, next the edge of the bed." She looked at him curiously, but did as he'd said. He got out of the bed and stood on the floor. "No, like that," John said; took Mary's feet and gently pulled towards where he wanted her to be. She suddenly seemed to understand, and moved so as to have her knees on the very edge, and her lower legs dangling out of the bed. 

"Sherlock...," he continued, then stopped. Sherlock's look was burning him. Had he guessed what John wanted to do? "Get up on your knees, please," he said, and his friend obeyed. "Straddle Mary. No, look at me. Like this."

John felt it, the moment they understood what he wanted to do. It'd be a bit tricky for him to perform, but he'd been fantasising about it from the moment a threesome became a possibility. Sherlock was on his knees, straddling Mary over her breasts and facing him. John inhaled sharply. Sherlock's eyes burnt like ice, his cock was proudly erect once more, and when he looked at Mary, he discovered one of the wildest looks he'd ever seen on her face.

John swallowed. He'd lost his domineering stance, he knew that, because he didn't feel domineering any more. The bed's height was perfect. He walked slowly towards Mary's knees, and licked his lips when he noticed her groin was glistening with moisture. His own dick twitched. He bent down slowly, carefully, until he managed to rub Mary's folds - her clit - just right. Mary whimpered, Sherlock's cock trembled, and John felt an inferno building low inside him. He approached his mouth towards Sherlock's groin. As unfair as it seemed, he'd never actually given Sherlock a blowjob yet. It felt odd, unusual, yet so very arousing at the same time. 

John tentatively licked Sherlock's cock, and heard him sighing in pleasure. It was difficult to look at Sherlock's face from that position, but when he licked the head more thoroughly, he risked a glance upwards. Oh, sweet goodness. Sherlock's eyes were half closed and glassy, looking at him with contentment. John grabbed Sherlock's dick with one hand to steady it, but it became too difficult to continue rubbing against Mary with only one arm as support. John groaned in frustration and supported himself on both arms again, defeated by gravity. The moment he did, he felt Sherlock's hand moving - one cupped John's face, the other grabbed his own cock. John managed to look up and what he found made his heart skip a beat.

Sherlock's face showed _love_. Needy, desperate, sweet love. Vulnerability. John felt as if he were looking straight to the sun and getting his eyes burnt; he closed his eyelids and took a breath. The air was heavy and smelled of sex; his heart beat fast, his groin was wet with Mary's pleasure. John felt his body quivering. He took Sherlock's dick into his mouth, and Sherlock hissed; he started rubbing against Mary again, and she moaned. They were perfect. They were so very sexy, the three of them, so very triumphant, so strong and courageous. Sherlock petted his hair like he'd done with Sherlock's so many times before, and John felt unexpectedly aroused by it. Mary quivered and raise her pelvis to meet his in such a wanton fashion John felt himself losing it. They were naughty, they were cheeky, powerful; and did whatever they wanted to, including threesomes, and fuck you, hypocritical moralists. He was a _cocksucker_ and he enjoyed it, as much as he enjoyed his cock being sucked. Mary's moans turned raspier and louder, more needy, and something not very usual happened - she came first, her hips moving erratically, her moans not moans but shouts. And then John lost it completely; pleasure shot up his groin and he poured himself on Mary's body, bliss almost blinding him, a needy grunt escaping his teeth; and soon after he felt something hot and liquid and sticky flowing down his lips, he felt the stiffness of Sherlock's hand against his scalp, the twitch of Sherlock's cock against his tongue, the sigh of pleasure that couldn't be concealed. And John smiled, he smiled broadly and stupidly, still half knocked out by pleasure, still not sober enough to feel the fatigue, the cold and the discomfort of the position. 

It'd taken him decades to experience this kind of mind-blowing sex. What'd he been waiting for, for fuck's sake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence.
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


	6. Epilogue: Merlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to **sideris** for all the corrections, tips and counsels. Thank you also for taking my clunky sentences and turning them into proper English. 
> 
> If you like johnlock fanfiction, I recommend reading sideris's :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ooOoo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was 13:35 PM at his parent's cottage. Sherlock was alone, upstairs. And there, in front of him. On that goddamned computer screen. The names were different, of course. The girl even had a different nose - financed with taxpayer's money, no doubt. But it was undeniable. 

He remembered his conversation with Mycroft. _CCTV cameras._ He hadn't erased the footage at the YOI himself - but he was behind it all: the prison break, the obstacles Sherlock found when investigating. The elaborate plan to make Moriarty 'come back'. 

He felt extremely angry and stupid. He felt annoyed. So very annoyed. But he also understood what it all meant, and he had enough sense to shut his mouth. 

He turned off his brother's computer and strode out of Mycroft's bedroom at their parent's cottage. His family was snoring on the living room table, the cake he'd brought for their mother's birthday half-eaten. He put on his coat with a flourish and went out to chain-smoke. He needed it. 

His brother. His arch-enemy. His guardian angel. 

His personal Merlin. 

Sherlock took a drag, let the smoke burn his lungs and blew it slowly into the air. 

* * *

It was sunny outside but the deserted warehouse was dark and gloomy. Mary didn't dare lose her focus on _him_. Silence reigned, broken only by the occasional mechanical grunt from an old fan on the wall. She was on edge.

“Why did you do it?" she said. She took a shaky breath and added, "What was the point of giving my file to Sherlock?"

She had no sensible reason to be afraid or nervous, but of course she was, her long honed animal senses screaming danger. _Verflucht. Anja, keep your composure_. He simply looked at the handle of his umbrella, and after a silence he answered, “My, dear. I thought it'd be interesting, that's all." He smirked. 

Mary felt cold inside. Mycroft could be scary without even trying to look remotely threatening. Mary swallowed and said, trying to sound strong, “That wasn't part of what we agreed.”

Mycroft made a dramatic show of looking first at the ceiling and then at the raised tips of his polished black shoes. “No,” he admitted, staring at her blankly. “Nor did it hinder our plans.”

She felt a spark of rage. “Do you think I'm just some rag doll to play with?” 

Mycroft waited some seconds before answering; time enough for Mary to regret having shown Anja's irritation. Then Mycroft smoothly replied, “Aren't you?” 

She suddenly went flat and lost her courage. She breathed with difficulty. Mycroft's lips formed a ghost of a smirk. “I beg your pardon,” he silkily said. “That was rude of me. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” she answered, and her voice sounded weak even to her own ears.

Abandoned warehouses didn't usually have drinks readily available, but of course he had his car. He probably kept expensive liquors in his limousine.

“All in all,” said Mycroft, commanding Mary's attention again, “everything went as expected. Congratulations.”

Mary braced herself and fixed her eyes on the floor. “It's those kids you should congratulate.”

“Not really. It was smart of you to choose teenagers. They are easier to trick.” He smiled amiably, and Mary felt his lungs frost with fear. But she remained stoic. 

“We had to let them out early, naturally,” explained Mycroft with chilling smoothness. "They're clever, after all. They're at our service right now." He looked at his fingernails with feigned disinterest. “It's not easy, but we always manage to return favours, Anja, dear. If we want to. It goes without saying,” he added. His smile was both pleasantly polite and dangerously sharp at the same time. Mary swallowed. 

“As it is,” Mycroft said, “you did do us... do _me_ , a huge favour. It is not everyday that someone can boast about having outsmarted the great detective Sherlock Holmes. Twice.”

Mary blinked. "He hasn't deduced it was me behind the hacking and the prison break?"

Mycroft simply looked at the tip of his umbrella, and she felt the hairs of her arms rising. She quietly added, “I wouldn't have been able to do it without your infrastructure.” 

Mycroft's smile was that of a magnanimous king shark. He answered, “No need to be modest, my dear. You did prevent Sherlock from dying in exile. Although I must admit I cannot fathom what you told those kids to persuade them.” He gave a melodramatic sigh, not unlike his brother's. “But of course. You are good at tricking unsuspecting people, aren't you?”

Mary could feel her face turning as white as a sheet of paper. She remained silent - she didn't trust her voice not to fail her. Mycroft seemed to be enjoying himself.

"If I'm honest, Anja, I'm a bit curious. Does John know you were part of a terrorist organisation?" he continued asking in his suave, poisonous, dangerous voice.

Anja rose from the ashes, hot with anger, and she stared hard at him. Despite the danger, despite being at his mercy, fury blinded her and made her talk recklessly. "We weren't terrorists," she spat. "We were soldiers."

"Same thing, dear," dismissed Mycroft, clearly amused. He underscored his words with a carefully rehearsed hand-flourish of indifference. But his eyes were sharp and cold like needles. He smiled slowly, gracefully, and Mary felt the urge to lower her eyes. Stupid. She'd been stupid. She'd taken his bait. _Pathetic._

"Oh, I understand you might feel frustrated with yourself," Mycroft attacked. "Frustrated at becoming the _bourgeois_ Mary Watson, maybe?" 

She clenched her teeth, but kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on his necktie. He was provoking her, just for the fun of it, she was certain. _Don't answer._ No. She wouldn't let him handle her like a five year old. She decided it was time to change the subject.

“Sherlock doesn't suspect anything, then?” she said, risking a glance at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed and lifted an eyebrow, as if resigning himself to bear with her stupidity. “No,” he said blandly. “And he has obtained an official pardon for his... unfortunate mistakes.” He gave her a sharp facsimile of a benevolent, fatherly smile.

“So have you, my dear. You needn't worry about being imprisoned or extradited to Germany any more.”

Above the fear and the irritation, Anja felt a huge wave of relief wash her over, to the point she had to close her eyes. When she looked back at Mycroft, his smile was genuinely warmer and kinder. “You have saved my beloved brother from himself. Twice, if we consider your arrangement with John Watson. And I always keep my end of the bargain.”

 _Indeed_ , thought Mary, tears clenching her throat but her eyes stubbornly dry. She was no fool: she'd been a convenient pawn. It'd been Mycroft who'd saved his brother. Mary felt her stomach turn ice cold and she clasped her trembling hands at her back. They were safe, she realised. Safe.

Until further notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note1: This is a work of fanfiction based on other works of (fan)fiction and on some real-life names and places. However, it still is just a work of fiction and any resemblance with real-life events is pure coincidence.
> 
> Note2: It is not my intention to offend or to put any one ill at ease. If, however, that is the case, I apologize.


End file.
